I wanted darkness; pentecost

[Pentecost]

An ache of want and stars.

He comes from a visitation, so unlike many others, because she receives him so willing.

So like a zealot taking song into her heart – a many-mouthed thing because, after all, he is divinity; evil; all-seeing and everlasting fire. She drinks deeply the wine of his coming, and after he spills and leaves, the last note of a hymnal remains.

He could be hallelujah – the Son...

But by and large the boy is not special – He is the Father, and to be His (to be His in coitus; to be made of Him, spilt seed and good works) is not special. Pentecost is a single, cracked seed among hundreds sowed in pink earth. 

But he is her’s. And that must be something. 

Because she is His.

A Son.

He grows in that safe and softened place – the first to carve her out and make this womb his – and he shines, as his flesh closes in around his young bones and muscles, like her, bright and refined silver. There, he rocks and listens to the muffled sounds of everything – the cataclysms and revelations of strange voices and songs. 

He keeps in his mind the rumbling, chorale tone that, now and then, shakes the walls of his solitary temple, gentling him into slumber.

On the two-hundredth day, a serpent lashes, fork-tongue and condemned belly, down his slender neck. And behind it leaves a senseless passage, spelled out in stars that die on his neck – purple tattoos.

On the three-hundred and fortieth day, she lays down and the firm, pulsing halls of his hermitage squeeze. Pull. Contract and push. A Rapture – an end times; the terminus of beautiful months in solitary, single thoughtlessness that he will never be able to recall. It is no agony – not for him – he is filled with the will to breath and cedes to the division, him from her, and moves ever down, down towards light.

Her touch is his Beginning. Down that ancient and holy text on his neck, and he leans into it, shaking and blinking. Gurgling nonsense as he fixes on her self-same shine.

Mother.

@[Cassi] - blank cheque for anything to happen