The Dancers of Solstice
  

By Hank Edson

And then later came the greater knowledge, an understanding of the penetration, the light this time, that magnificent blazing force miles upon millions of miles high in the sky making the most succulent blue but an arid dry thirst. And my body all the while underneath that unceasing fire which, though self contained, feasted, absorbing the life fluid out of the already thin disguise of vapor. My body now this desert, I knew the heat generating in the nothingness between was what I had once called my soul. As if anything could be mine anymore and I lay prone and windless, helplessly ranged in the dunes of a tired history. My eyes parching for the sun’s sweat tears of mercy. It was then that began the dance, as if in answer to my prayers, a sensual nourishment in its silent inferno. I don’t know how many of them there were. More than I could know, each sculpting, massaging, licking my sandy skin as though it were fruit grown from a sacred spring. The dancers of the solstice, they covered my desert in a wordless ballet. A thousand falling steps, each of a different meaning, awakening, burning, quenching. They lived and died, I thought, these dancers upon my being. Centuries were made light with laughter. Ages and epochs exchanged mute smiles of knowledge. The greetings of crystal mannequins and the fantasy of sweeping flames laid hold of my consciousness and I surrendered-up all my bonds of self, fluid to the rhythm of their grace expressed, freed by their absolute sensitivity; imperceptible footprints of their progress across the Sahara—that is how it came to me when I awoke, recuperated and aware. The souls of all eternity had danced art upon my own, but each understanding too well the corporal dust that remained as my body to betray by turns a grain with weight displaced the trace of hope beyond.

Copyrights © Hank Edson 2008  

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