Wednesday, 21 August 2013

The Howl

She gives her everything and then nothing, holding the full weight of her heart in a mouth.

At night the silver birch illuminated by the full moon moved with a rhythmic ebb of a river running from itself. Running to a greater sense of goodness that only a sea could promise. She etched upon her back the coordinates of home, and ran red ribbon from it to her heart. Tied with a double loop and sealed with wax. The needle is kept under the skin of her left palm. This way she is always closer to her God.

It grew under the exposed delirium of night and came to be birthed in the first light of a morning on a Saturday. Houses laid silent among the hedgerows and the scent of chlorine wafted in the air. Only one other woke as the birds descended to dance in long grasses. The nightjars had become silent.

Burning coasted on clouds of dust. She lifted her head from the cooled ground to sponge the watery dew from her lips. Ferns clung to her pale skin leaving their delicate veiny imprint on her face. If she listened closely, she swore the sound of God was about her, the sound of the sea raging with her infantile womanhood. This is the substance of visions and delirious veracity. Feverish the earth moved within her. The broken thing, yet to emerge rested on the tip of her nose. Let the earth invade crevices. Let her bury it, let her entomb the conquest within the concavity of her childish ways.

It would emerge soon, dancing upon the rays of light that filtered, fractured, through the chestnut tress heavy with the burden of their fruit. Soon the fields would fills with many hands to make light the heavy work of harvest. Unmissed, time was hers, to ravage the shore of her imagination, to search for driftwood to build her cross. Let her be crucified and resurrected. Say a prayer and all is forgiven. Suffering is selfish when driven by redemption. Everyone longs to be loved.

Hands cupped together, they catch her as it falls like rain. Searing from the sky to drown the seed and she, no Noah, cannot bail fast enough to stop the rivulets of the sin running away. She dug the hole to bury them. To keep from view herself, and another. The horror of the morning and the night. To lay to rest the dreams that had long run into waking. Chestnuts fell from the skies split in two upon rocks sprawling open the pregnant state of fertility. Scorched by the sun, dried to hardened flesh they rotted soon enough, back from where they came. Not every seed becomes a tree. This much is true and she learnt as witness to the horror. Her own part she played and played it well.

There are many promises made across blood lines. Each one has been smeared colloquially by fingers and thumb. A bed, unmade tells many tales and the shadows hold onto the sounds trapped there. Her voice lower and deeper, is animalistic. Hear how the rabbits howl.

Anyone can be a refugee, in their own country, in their own family, in their own hearts. How far you travel for salvation depends on how unforgivable the sin. There are only so many lies that can be told until the truth is spoken.

Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2013

Passion of the blood

Spiders spin their ancient web of sin and salty incubi. Expectancy rests in the bud of their abdomen. The contrast of a true masochist is that he sees his endeavours as a mean to an end.

He flogs the broom of nettles across her back, digging deep into the open wound of her femininity. Her fingers bleed with a death grip. A single bloody tear trickles from her lips. A silent prayer loses itself in stale air of an enclosed space. Not all sarcophaguses are marked with a name and date of death.  Some are merely rooms within rooms whose occupants are still breathing. Cobwebs cling to the corners of rotting windows, paint peeling from wood. Histamines sink deeply into skin. The flagrant air of desire and sweat lifts from two bodies broken in an anfractuous dance. Passion of the blood.

Compliance is no matter for intellectual debate. It is the unjust duelling of brutally with another’s heart. He ate hers. Upon his workbench are rusted screws and unused tools and whiskey bottles carelessly hidden. Oil stains the carpet, the slick of morality. Mortality embedded itself into the lining of her flesh, internal. The lullabies of childhood silenced.

Catkins hang pregnant, swaying gentle of a heated breeze of summer. The iridescent green of newly strung life is beginning to turn under the oppressive gaze of the solar flare. Realities slip further away with the madness of summer. The oppression of learning is not long enough forgotten.

She cast herself into the water, headfirst from the stones steps. A glory of weightlessness overwhelmed the sensation of capture. The magnolia tree cast its shadow in the corner of the pool of water, petals peeling in surrender to the sun. Water flooded her mouth, cleansing the pallet of sound and substance. It is the beginning of a love affair. How many times do you have to drown yourself before you learn to swim. How much brutality must your taste before you see the beauty of violence.

Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2013