Standing on a cliff overlooking Washington park and the Willamette staring at the most beautiful Doug Firs in Oregon we stood with my back facing you and your knife about to break my skin. You speak the words releasing matter into the ether raising ancestors resolve to right a wrong. With a flick of your wrist and incision was made.
Hot blood ran wild down my left shoulder gaining speed towards the frayed ends of what use to be a $40 dress, staining it to story that would never be told. Whimpers fled the scene of the crime reaching no one's nowhere calculating only distance. Tears ran hot like fire down cheeks that held tightly to a bitter taste woefully deserved to dissipate back to it's owner.
Hot blood ran wildly over hips and elastic collecting anticipated sweat twice more opening. Gateway of lost promises and closed secrets that survived when nothing else would, running into other dangerous ideas from someone else's mind, implanted. " I call upon the spirit of..", distant incantations spoken into canyons traveling over tops of evergreens soaring with the spirits caught on the winds.
The final blood settled. Drops from tips of fingers into dry earth discovering crevasses. Phalanges, brown/red. The power of calling it's name to inspire exodus also called to action a dormant giant who has slept too long. A summoning. The sounds of ancient harmonies. Rattling melodies meld with sweat, tears and the occasional outburst for forgiveness, release and hope. "Turn towards the dying sun", simple request bent knee to stone and the golden hour never looked so beautiful.