that summer i rose from my grave, sighing & feverish, my hair spread out around my head, flowers crushed between my legs. i strained upward toward the murmuring of growing things, and all night i moved above the dark light of small, wild places; lit down finally onto your skin; settled like a hushed prayer over your bones.
there i became the earth and the water and the wide, hot moon, guarding you with my fecund temple, touching you with my reed fingers. my cobweb hair.
my body chanting you.
this woman is an altar. my incense. these candles. this place is a place of worship, this room, with doorways, these hands, with you on them. this mouth. and this mouth. and this mouth.
my slow purr.
Ta (stage name Taja) is a sometime writer, constant feline worshiper, unconventional belly dancer & aspiring bon vivant.
Ta exists in an incredibly beautiful area in western canada where she lives with one quiet, clever boy and two lazy felines. She is a high summer spirit with a wild appreciation for autumn and an affinity for everybody. She burns a lot of candles, talks in spirals and deeply loves the rain. Visit her: undreaming.net