She dropped to her knees and pulled a piece of chalk from the front pocket of her black wool coat. This was the kind of chalk sidewalk artists often use, twice as thick around as a man’s thumb. She drew a flower with eight petals and the geometry of a tesseract for a stigma. Perhaps it was subtle moisture on the faded blacktop bleeding the chalk, or something in the geometry itself, but each line seemed to blur and vibrate. “This is it, the dagger for the demiurge.” she said, rising and brushing chalk dust from the front of her jacket.
I had dreamt of this flower, golden dreams that tasted like bee’s wax and honey. I had pressed my face into its blossoms and it had smelled like the first neck I had ever tasted. The pollen was alive and swarming, the kind of infection waiting to happen that gave our ancestors mitochondria. These were the engines of kairos. This was something that used you as much as you used it. Paranoid priests feverishly dreaming of nefarious pacts signed with the devil had only been crafting metaphors for this harvest. “I’ve dreamt of this.” I said aloud at last. “I knew you would have.”
Crows called out from across the still waters of reservoir just as they had two years ago. “I have a plan” she said as the winsome echoes or the crows faded into the breeze.
Beautifully written.
You have a way with words,
look forward to reading more.
Posted by: nova | July 16, 2008 at 05:19 PM