“Where there is a woman there is magic. If there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits.”
― Ntozake Shange
I woke to rumbling thunder coming in from the mountains, and the flutter of her wings still fresh in my mind. I rolled over and began to pore through my overflowing trunk of wonders - ephemera, clippings, old photographs.
"I'm here," she wooed. "Find me."
Past glitter and feathers and woodcuts, past discarded pieces of silk, she told me her name was Revenant, and that she was all that had been forgotten. That she was and is the woman of dreams, somewhere between mists and time, waiting for reclamation. And that she was winged, and from her mouth fell the moon.
Hours later, we pieced each other together. She is forged from purple candles, ink, old prints, silver moons, nightshade and ancient trees. She dances with the waves, and her skin is a melange of jasmine and patchouli and moss. There is no guile within her, only dreams. She whispered and murmured, and together we wove her mystery, and tucked away hidden secrets for the viewer to behold. She is wild and sweet and in love with the night sky.
She wants you to know that her name is key - and what you thought had died within you waits.
That love is not gone.
That she is there, waiting still.