THE VIRGIN AND THE PHOENIX
The quivering of sleek feathers, raven wings unfolding.
Shadows playing catch.
A virgin fire, alight.
Darkness swallows her gasps, massages her heart.
A golden phoenix rises from her flames.
The birth of that moment brings with it new life.
Love germinates, visible in the virgin’s eyes.
The raven has the grace of an angel, the cunning of Capone.
A proclivity for the forbidden.
The virgin is attracted to that.
A virgin and a phoenix share the rise and fall of flight.
They share, too, a totem. That of passion.
A virgin’s passion is her learning.
A phoenix’ passion is her surrender to his lessons.
A golden raven works in the same way.
Where there are fires and virgins and golden sunbirds, there is candle wax, ash.
There is ceremony; ritual. Devotion.
An ambient calm, and trust. Lust.
A phoenix cannot rise without a fire.
A virgin cannot either.
The stroke of a wingtip on bare skin can render a virgin senseless.
A writhing virgin can do the same to a raven.
A phoenix is freed by extreme heat. Plumes of smoke. Smears of ash.
A virgin is freed when the timing is right.
The phoenix rises, carrying her in his talons.