We could not find the new words we needed for the expanse before us, and so we turned back to the very oldest epithets. Cloth-pale, berry-black, crow's-wing, jewel-strewn, rice-cake moons; old poems came alive in our awestruck, open mouths when we looked out into space. Awesome gods themselves had never heard such a sound as the awesome voice of humanity that rang infinitely high and long. Stopping our ship in the ever-flowing Milky Way, we begged lodging from the wet-sleeved Weaver Maid who tends the floating bridge of dreams.
Iori Kusano flies between Seattle and Tokyo with books for pillows. When she's not writing speculative fiction and poetry, she studies classical Japanese literature. Her work has also been published in Goblin Fruit. Find her on Twitter @IoriKusano.