An unremarkable day in May,

though in retrospect,

the blackbird was peremptory.

And of course, there was

the fox at my door,

the night before.

                                                                                                               

I came inside with a handful of thyme,

greedily enjoying a prompted memory.

When out of the corner of my eye,

I did spy, a glint of gold.

There on the table,

just waiting to be seen.

 

I sat to glory at the sight,

instinctively understanding its import.

Perhaps if I had had younger knees,

I would have knelt in reverence,

or danced a jig in my little kitchen.

Salty tears were my best offering.

 

We never know when it will come.

Or what manner it will take.

But when it comes, something

neat and deep takes form in us,

like a magnet with its sole purpose.

On that day I needed no instruction.

 

A slender gold chalice,

with a little silver paten atop.

And a black shimmering fish,

perfectly poised on the precious plate.

As if it were still swimming,

though its body was quite still.

 

A shame to upset such grace.

But change waits for no woman.

I took the chalice in one hand,

the paten in the other.

Waiting for the fish

to leap from silver to gold.

 

It didn’t take long.

Schoolgirl alchemy really.

The fish flapped about a bit,

before melding and melting,

animal with mineral;

an ancient mead.

 

There was no turning back

after just one sip.

So I drank thirstily.

Enjoying the warm amber liquid,

coursing down my gullet,

and settling in my belly.

 

This was my third re-formation.

From the stiff bones of an old woman,

to the burgeoning frame of a young man.

By day, an apprentice boat builder.

By night, a shadow at your window.

A cold hand to muffle your scream.