Rhythm
The god-drums have started again, and
I am compelled
To dance
Unwilling, legs heave me upright
Shuffle one foot in front of the other
In the dust
Clothing falls away
Until I am covered with nothing
But sweat
The curtain of my hair
Suddenly long and dark
Not mine
I sway into the circle
Of painted men and women
Faces hidden behind carved masks
Beside the bonfire
Which roars with the voice of Bear
My hips turn
Breasts swing
A wind from Eagle's wings
My hair flies back
I crouch and rise
Bend and leap
To the laughter of Otter
My arms float up
Fingers trace geometric patterns in the air
Trailing light that lingers
The tempo of the drumming increases
Pulling me along
I move faster
Circling the fire
Limbs quivering
Still, I dance
For I can do
Nothing else
Ever faster we move
The drums and I
Finding new patterns
Stomp, step, jump, pause
And then
And then
The drumming stops
I stop
I thrust my bare arms into the bonfire
Up to the elbows
Gather red-hot coals to me
Suckle them as my children
I show the coals to the drummers
And
Fling them into the sky
The Crone
An ancient woman
wanders across the vast grassy plain
With long, gray tumbled locks and
a glint in her dark eyes
she wears a spiderweb shawl
a swirl of heavy, earth-brown skirts and
nothing else
At her waist, she carries a cloth bag
filled with small round stones from the river
and thrusting a hand deep inside, she
picks one at random
Pausing
the old woman then
peels
sunburnt skin from her arms
cheeks, neck and nose
Meticulously
layer after layer
she wraps the skin around the stone
until it is as large as a plum
She plucks a single gray hair from her
head
ties the strand around the skins
and shoves the new seed
into the ground at her bare, dirty feet
with the ball of one horn-nailed thumb
Straightening, she coughs and
spits onto the place
says a prayer to the goddess, for luck
checks to see which way the wind isn't blowing
and moves on
Sometimes she wanders back
to see what, if anything
has grown in her absence
She will look, but never touch
at most, brushing a little dirt from the curl of leaf
with a sweep of her hair
Imagine her astonishment
when one of the plantings
stirred and spoke
asking
"Mother, what am I?"
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