she speaks

the quiet came down like a thick blanket, cool and heavy against the prickling of my skin. the fragrant flowers left traces in my clean, wet hair. i heard the eastern screech owl, who trilled a deep cooing sound not at all like her name belied. i couldn't sleep. it wasn't unusual, for since the time of my childhood i had become aroused after the final breath of day whooshed out, and night glided in on her indigo wings. i had no expectations of my family to understand, and through the years my peaking energy left friends and lovers alike completely confounded. they might sleep or struggle while i ran my feverish hands through colors, through pages of stories, poetry, or my own insatiable needs.

i asked my mother if i have always been this way. she responded slowly, trying not to damn me in the answer. but morning has always brought me suffering. the low grey lights bleeding to pinks and fiery salmon. the wisps of the nocturnal fairies receding to the days of duty and heat. she speaks to me, calling me to dance in her splendid twinkling robes and i cannot refuse her. it is when things are most effortless, somehow more poignant, and when my spirit calls out to the creatures in the forests and in the swamps. the gentle song floods me now, pulsing in small rhythms, thousand-fold symphonies of insects and amphibians alike calling the sacred name of the mother. our mother. my mother. my name.