“make what we believe”
She inhales the night-sky and fury that rise like steam from Caligo and Calliope's words. Isra inhales and she exhales and each spark of lighting and each flash of meteors above their head is made of ink sculpted into words and then the words are twisted into shape and form and feeling.
Isra feels like dried kelp dragged along the sand behind the vibrancy of the two black creatures who seem so 'other', so wild and eternal.
She feels nothing like a moon and nothing like a unicorn. She feels like a page, blank and brittle and worthless but for the words scripted across the endless emptiness of her. Perhaps this is why she steps away from them as lightly as a doe and her eyes turn as wild as the sea under a dark and stormy sky. Perhaps that emptiness is calling, calling, calling to her to do something, to be as grand and lovely as they.
Her horn when she tosses it sighs like a butterfly wing instead of a storm and she knows that he thunderbirds will come for her first if they turn. She will be the first star to smoke and smolder in their translucent throats. Only briefly does she wonder what it is in her to cause her to look back to the lake and tremble for 'something'.
Is it the slave or the unicorn that rules her bones now? The story-teller or the queen?
“Shall we go now then?” Isra says, imagining the words dripping like ink and dreams (and barb-wire flowers) and ending in nothing that suggests a question.
