Omer 13 - the people’s daughter

The people’s daughter, entering the new world with soot in her eyes, strained vision to find where the rivers converge, only finding the ocean before her and its waves tugging at her feet to return home to the sea calling her back. Whispers and screams carried by cycling wind to and past the veil, carrying her visions, teasing the answers in response through dreamscapes and flora, fauna, lightning strikes. The world speaks — quiet, loud, in tongues and plain language, waiting…waiting for fluency from even one person to carry conversation.

The salt of the water is the salt of her skin, enzymes shared with fruits and mollusk, veins shaped as the symbiotic mycorrhizal roots, a world unto herself walking through macrocosm. She wears lilies on her neck, roses at her temples, sandalwood in the crooks of her elbows. Notes and strings and larynx bring the answers closer while slipping through fingers and hair. Brushing up against yenne velt, fingers pressing into the collective unconscious, trying to push past the gates of analogous analogies, prying it open slow, slowly, slower — answers lost to metaphor and communications primordial, the key buried and forgotten.

Cerebral cortex and cerebrum holding answers just as the ground and ozone, just as the pine and murex. Ingesting the medicines processed through sustenance, ingesting the knowledge held in genetic markers snapped into place through triggers unknown. The keys to the switchboard passed along in part, in verdigris and eroded. In laughter and in tears, she will find what she is seeking by averting her gaze; on the periphery, tugging at the edges.

She is the people’s daughter: legacy of rage and curiosity, of instinct and tragedy and prayer, of sorrow and holy spark.

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Omer 12 — Still here < previous || next > Omer 14 — the 14 winged thing

the start: Omer 1 — Pomegranate