I will say your names, your holy liquid names. Goddess knows if anyone wants to hear them, but hey – the tape is off my mouth, and this is what is coming out. They are coming out as words, but also as flowers.
Words like the bracing cold on the mountain, like the shock of amber water in a rushing rock pool.
My mouth has been sealed for so long. Now the words rise like the wind, like the clouds and grasses blowing across the veld. My mouth is melted, parted, receiving words like manna, like lightning, like the scent of spikenard at the resurrection.
The tape is off my mouth. No more apologising, gossiping, rehashing, bore-myself-to-death, please-others speech. The words are earlier than wine, they are living water.
Silence comes out too, rich viscous silence. In counterpoint to sound.
The editor is being carried away on a palanquin, thanked for her service, loved, but no longer needed. The words are free unto themselves, they are virgin forests, fresh lakes. They cannot be contained.
We are not bound by human language, baby. The words don’t have to be ours. We can speak in tongues with trees, with the waterfall leaping from ledge to ledge down the mountain.
Let us pray together without ceasing.