An excerpt from the follow-up/-on to The Floating Harbour.
“These sage scribes…
Departing life has made their names forgotten;
writings alone make them remembered.”
– Hieratic Papyri
She sees the world through rings of colour wrapped about her soul, reflecting – small – the inf’nite moment borne on swells of light.
He sat slowly down beside her.
Up she stands; presents her hand.
He laughs – subdued; he stood.
Exit, pursued by a beer-soaked call.
Tis brief, Magdalene.
As a drunk John’s love.
Not quite naked, aye-thur or, no, nor not quite settled, nee-thur. She stroked his head (the part he’d really paid for).
The soft ‘n scented heat held pressed – perturbed; placate – light lifeforcefully firm ‘n cradled, nurturing innubile needs, lusting after comfort, drifting drowsily now doused in disp’rate sens’ry fires felt in overlapping outward rippling flamewave wand’rings amidst neural nexi needfulously bridging binding bonds, unbound by filtered vision, smell, sound, touch that finds the grainy ground, its chill of deep’ning night transferred to exposed skin – gold-brown ‘gainst browned-gold.
Shivering, she pushes ‘gainst the world until she’s kneeling.
Yawning, she rubs two tired fists against her eyes.
Standing, she brushes sand from hair ‘n rags ‘n elbows.
Wondering, she wanders; wanders wondering.
Under the white, ungentle calls of the warmth of other sun gods, clasping to herself her heart-sent heat, she made her way – alone – along the garden walls and streetways, meeting, in the middle of an empty square, a cat.
“Ou-bast.”
The girl knelt – her knees upon the cold, stone floor; naked heels touching her clothed behind. Presenting both her hands – palms up – she asked:
“Where is your royal litter?”
Ears standing tall and still; long limbs, in grace, held closely poised: the restless tip of the night-black tail tapped – soft – upon the paved ground. Slits sang of lapis ‘midst her father’s golden fire in ferocious eyes; sleek, sinewed sensuality’s the shape she claimed.
Lowering her hands – each one upon each knee, gripping at a cresting wave of nausea – the girl-child held her wincing gaze/her wincing gaze was held on/by the stern, maternal crashing sea of flame ‘bout lapis song.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
The girl lent o’er her thighs, debilitated by their pain; the cat, in poise, held gracefully her long limbs close and tall.
A slow, unleashed breath…
Shed latent life in exhalation…
Soothing soft: a gentle breeze now washes through her hair, settling on beyond her shoulders, wrapped about her febrile hips.
Inhaled’s the deep’ning night; her tears course fluvial.
william altoft 