We get high on the nectar of eternity.  We laugh with deep pleasure when our beloved gods, horny men, take us to bed and draw red roses on our bellies with their tongues.  We grow our gardens, lush with fruit and vulva flowers.  We hum and dance to the beat of eternity, a slow pulsating, the orgasm of life.  We stomp love into the ground with our ancient feet, swinging our hips, undulating our bellies like serpents, lifting our breasts to the warmth of the sun, stretching our backs until our punanis brighten red and surrender.

After we have made love to the men, after we have tended our gardens, after we have hummed and danced and stomped love into the ground, we retreat into our temples, and there we beckon the velvet abyss.  Ah, how she comes to us when we call her, how she cradles us in the folds of her sensuousness.  We sink until we reach bottom, and then we gather blood into the palms of our hands so we can paint dreams.  We paint ourselves too, stretching across space and time to reach the skies and earth and the walls of caves.  The lion roars and the dove coos from outside our temple doors.  They are singing to us, watching as we make love to ourselves.


After days of this, we have the strength and wisdom to come down to you, dear women.  We come to you in simple flowing robes of white, our hands before us in a gesture of humility, or we come to you in Egyptian dress, holding onto our ankhs, our eyes smudged with black kohl, and yet others of us come to you in blue or red velvet, witches of the past, our hair flying behind us.  We are magnificent with the knowing of our womanliness.

You have dreamed of this moment, never believing it would happen, and so when we finally arrive, you are resplendent with the deliciousness of your soul, your eyes blazing with passion, your hair aglow with diamonds.  We take you by the hand and lead you down the labyrinth of your own making.  Might it be a labyrinth of moss and feathers, sparkling with the dew drops of spring?  Or might it be a labyrinth of damask curtains with the faces of goddesses painted upon them, golden pillars marking every turn?  Do you hear the owls hooting as you take your first steps?  Do you smell the lavender and sage?  Do you see the stars above in the sky, guiding you?

Step from the labyrinth and into our world, and see that honeyed milk flows from our breasts so that you may suckle and be nourished.  Stars alight from our eyes so that you may be filled with light.  The moon rests upon our fingertips so that you may see with wisdom.  Our sweetness is yours, sweet like berries between your lips.

It is yours for the taking, if you want it.

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About Juliana Crespo

Juliana Crespo’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Hobart, Literary Orphans, Flash Fiction Magazine, Mothers Always Write, Mud City Journal, Ruminate, Fiction Southeast, among others. She is an English teacher at a high school in Bloomington, Indiana, where she also lives with her family.