arianna
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Mother, Lightning Born ~Erinn~
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May 14 02:41 UTC 2001 |
You might remember this one as a bit I posted in item #177. This was the
end result of the original fragment; after almost a year of letting it
sit, nothing more has offered itself to be added, so I'm posting it. Have
at it.
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(Tue, Jul 4, 2000)
Sky clippings spike violently down;
weighted, frustrated, anger within static.
Velvet sandwich of cumulonimbus
pressing down from the firmanent, voluminous.
A missing knot, a heated blade --
the sky is unclasped, gravid and decending.
Ocean scoured shore voltage-heavy --
singular forceps of a bolt hot and quick
cut the air with a shriek, sheer the limb off a tree.
Shrunk to fit in a sand-hollowed niche is a woman;
she is climbing the cliff, set to witness this storm.
At the crest of the rock, with hands and knees bloodied
the rain strikes her face, slaps her for her presumption.
Baring down on the wind is her voice
raised in rage. Screaming. Chorusing
victory over death; claiming life for her actions.
Louder than gale, her voice resonant with power -
She has harnassed the lightning and is singing it down.
A cyclone reaches out, over the water,
One eye in the midst of a watery face.
A cyclops with invisible hands and wings
Lifts the black-haired woman into the sky.
Three days later a man walks on the beach.
Driftwood, water weeds and shells litter the sand.
As he walks, he is humming a tuneless air
of distraction, but still manages not to step on
sharp shells and sticks - or her long black hair.
Fever dreams touch her face and her eyelids tremble.
When she wakes she is not the same.
She is branded by lightning, chosen by the gods,
Four symbols tattooed: on stomach, heart, throat and brow.
Oh Mother, lightning-born, we are still nestling in your womb.
In you we cannot breathe, but then do when we, too, break free
of your waters. Your wind, your voice, is to be
our first breath, when the spirit enters in.
Then we bear you, inside us, for eternity.
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