The woman is walking. She is also falling. She is also being born, learning to walk, hitting her first baseball, fighting her first cold, dating her first boyfriend, failing her first test, skating across ice, eating greasy pizza, molding a clay pot, laughing in the sunlight, twitching and gagging as she loses gouts and sputters of blood from a dime-sized hole in her throat.
All these images have collapsed and unified, her life transported boiled into one unending strip. Always the pain of birth and always the pain of death and once it began, once it suddenly began, it had never not been. Once it started it had always been.
It all happens, happened, will happen at once.
It is a terrible way to never die.
* * * * *
I, I, I, I can breathe.
I can see. I can feel, slow sun on my outstretched legs.
I have LEGS!
How long, how long in the void? I can twist and feel, and stand, and twirl. I can feel cotton brushing my thighs when I do.
Welladay, if it's time to try the Great Dance again, find the threads of fate, I have legs to dance with, and time to breathe in and taste, and smell.
Everything is so bright and strong. There's a click from behind me, and soft sweet horns start crawling across the air, pulling me into slow, graceful steps, turning.
"How high the moon"
(with Kora Vee)
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