the woman who caught a storm in her hair
by Ruby Sara
when she was young, she would sit, shorn, and imagine its wealth she kept it bound up at the nape, all the astonishing weight of it, bending the willow of her neck counting charms and weaving bead after bead, tucking them into its limitless silk the earth had begun to refuse the rain, had stopped exhaling its humectant pulse perfume of thanksgiving — water sat on the ground open-mouthed and waited for the eggs of insects, the tongues of ragged animals, soaked and thirsty running her invisible, anticipating hands through it the sky did not submit, sacked the tent, made us crazy with its unceasing, drill and bell and drum (all the shrieking had gone out of our throats, skin too hot for thunder) the same way she would thrust them into bins of peas at the grocery she made an arcane twist with her hand, and it came down, uncoiled, the serpent of her hair — sang some song with the devil in it, mud on her fingernails (terrible angel, with its eyes of ash and salt; swan, on the river, wishing lightning into its heart) to feel their cool, delicious texture, to satisfy the begging cells of her skin the rain stopped, and we could hear, in the heartbeat silence, laughter in the wood
Ruby Sara has been and sometimes is a storyteller, a poet, and a theologian. She is the editor of two anthologies of esoteric poetry published by Scarlet Imprint, as well as a regular columnist for Witches and Pagans magazine. Ruby's heart is currently caught between the smoke-wild mountains of eastern Tennessee and the funky badlands of Austin, Texas, and she is particularly partial to plums, from blossom to fruit. Her website can be found here.
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