She’s a trickster, stealing fire from the gods, sharing a joke with her sisters, crashing elevators through glass ceilings. She’s a coyote, circling the campfire, a raven singing a raunchy song.
She’s a witch, keeper of arcane knowledge, performer of healing rituals, holding a wet face cloth to the forehead of the fevered child. Like tides and wolves, she feels the influence of the moon, notices the way it slants through the wooden blinds onto the crisp white pillow, onto the sleeping face.
Next day, back bowed, she’s gathering herbs in the backyard between the radishes and Swiss chard. Fennel and basil and bitterroot and sage: each word an incantation; each leaf dropped in a brown paper bag.
She’s a fully grown woman, reckless and wanton, a modern day Amazon riding her motorcycle through the warm summer rain. She’s a full grown woman, inventing new names for love, leaving her message in teeth marks and lipstick.
Sometimes she’s a child again, drawing chalk circles, hopping up and down on one foot in the playground, still amazed by hummingbirds and laser beams. Sometimes she’s afraid of noises in the night.
He’s an alchemist, elbow-deep in poisons, searching the stars for meaning. His business is transformation, reconciling archetypes, interpreting dreams.
He’s a knight in a land without obvious dragons. He’s misplaced his grail, his sword is broken, but his horse is at full gallop.
He’s a renaissance inventor, discovering perspective, filling his notebooks with designs for impractical machines.
He’s a circus performer, defying gravity, one step away from falling. He’s the strong man, wearing the skins of animals, lifting impossible weights. He’s the magician, practicing illusions; the juggler, cycling backwards, keeping too many things suspended.
He’s a fully grown man, telling the truth, staring down demons. A full grown man, powerful in the midnight hour, gentle hands and faint taste of blood in his mouth, exploring sacred rivers.
Sometimes he’s a child again, still amazed by bulldozers and his daughter’s first steps. Sometimes, deep into the night, he sits listening to far off trains, drawing pictures in condensation, afraid of noises.
They are lovers in a darkened forest, travelling under curses. They are werewolves, moon-drunk and howling. They are clowns tripping over each other’s feet, falling ass backwards.
They are only lovers. Saturday morning moves slowly, if at all. Django Reinhardt and raisin toast and dust linger on the sunlit air. An ordinary life; all the possibilities of small: the orange juice; the coffee beans; the fortunate geometries, like the simple curve of her turning hip, his finger running down her back, disappearing into forever.
