In the Halls of my Father
Curl, furl, freeze and flatten.
Lift and touch and flow.
Her toes feel strange, in this place of white walls and… that man.
Her black toenails incongruous like pitch smears in this place of endless white, she moves with caution, pinching herself to the shining walls as if forking a pie crust.
And oh, quite yes, there is a pie she wants to eat, full of coursing blood and quiet rhythm. With crust of red and filling-fruit of destiny, it lingers in the dark, waiting for her. She hears it, beating. The shadow of the heart he keeps from her.
If he loved her, he would not.
The black door awaits at the end of the hall, looming, a room full of his treasures, no doubt.
She tends to the corner of the white wall a moment, having barefooted and tippy-toed to the end, so that her bright violet eyes glint around the corner to see more rooms amidst the white beyond to either side.
No. The Door is what she wants. And he knows it. He has left her alone, on purpose.
So she can open the door for him?
Wasn’t he the one who put it there?
How annoying, she thinks, as her hands wrap around the smooth silver doorknob that sticks from the black slab like a maiden key in an old, old lock- he also knows she’s going to do it anyway.
But despite his wile, he is still soft as a… what is the Solian word for a stupid young animal? Ah yes, lamb.
And she will card his wool, dye it well, and make presents of it to his little compatriots.
Her shadow will cover the land.
As she enters the room, her imagined, mythic ribs grasp a breath and she sees-