How she wanted to dance anger out of silence: expletives of lightning thrumming onto exploded ground, the ground from which there was no going back now that she was awake.
It was summer then, the land of thunderstorms beyond the borders of the old country. That old country was falling apart. She was an unfit rebel, shuffling categories in her hands like cards, her chipped nails holding texts that she read at night by the lamp of her being. Her name meandered out beyond definition. She found her discourse in morning sunlight, ripe grass going to seed, found herself in meadows, mountains, in maturity and the melting of what they told her she was.
She was not, she shouted: “I am not!” She refused and turned, her hair returning from the desert of the crown of her head. She’d had enough. She tipped the bucket, turned it over. All, all the empathy spilled in patterns of delight, of the colors that can only be described as true, as bright as the brown of the spider she allowed to crawl up her arm. Her honey bees came to her, all sunlight and glass, out beyond breath, honeysuckle hundreds of miles above what the patriarchs proclaimed.
She was enough, more than enough, she was more and she shouted, “More light! More darkness!” Words blossomed as red-winged blackbirds from her hands. “I refuse,” she said, turning, her skirt shivering outward like the yellow branches of daffodils. The old country trembled in revolution. Music sang her.
Sunlight scorched and quenched and she poured the anger out, rang the wet fabrics of her sadness and created rivers. These rivers that saturate us and our land, these rivers that fly around our houses in spring, flush with rain and snow and singing renewal into bones.
She is in that future. She sends shattered imaginings—the fine sand, atoms of hard-won skin, not sacrificed but sanctified, resurgent— She is in this strawberry. She breathes songs. She brings rain. She brings rain.
At this time, in this place, this body, I bring her into being. I exhume, animate, move beyond constraint to move freely and flood myself more fully with myself. I love her and she is me.
Grass underfoot, she’s leaving the flip-flops behind, coming out of the desert into wilder lands. She imagines cupping cold water in her hands and drinking, describing new labels as she flings arcs of water into emergent skies. And she sits, meditates on this landscape of grass and honeydew, notices all the impossibilities— the imaginings denied her by the wizards of the old country— being nurtured by the water. These seedlings smile and wave.
That mountain in the distance will not allow herself to be clearcut. That mountain will send armies of bears and badgers, will launch wars of birds bearing sunflowers. Those wars will fall apart, fall to seed, night will fall, the trees will reach down into Earth and find thunder. Then the truth will bloom on branches, untended.