The earth smolders in twilight. Like a black lake, I gaze into its depths and try to see myself—but instead of Narcissus’ reflection, clay idols stare back at me. Clay idols made of the flesh of the earth. Of river water. Of my sweat. I offer them what I have. I give all of myself, yet the earth growls beneath my feet. It demands more. It pulls me into its dark womb.
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I light a juniper branch to ward off the fear. The ceiling blackens, my face blackens, but the dread does not. Someone coughs in the corner. There is no one there—only a mirror. In the twilight, I try to make out my reflection, but a roaring beast with bared teeth looks back at me. I want to offer it berries and mushrooms, and a lamb born in spring, but I cannot reach it. With a still-hot juniper coal, I draw a map. I burn myself. I search for the path, and though I always see it, I cannot reach it. My feet sink into the wet mud, and I cannot tear myself from the earth. The beating of wings stirs up a cloud of dust. Birds shriek, clatter their beaks, open their throats and demand that I feed them. They want berries and mushrooms and a lamb born in spring. I feed them until they grow fat like clay whistles, until they can no longer fly. And now the birds, too, cannot reach it. Like plump hens they sit in the pen, waiting for the demons of the earth to devour them.
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The demons come to me in the evening hours, when the hens are fed, when the light has vanished from the window and from my heart. When the candle lights the room, they torment me. They dance devil dances in my palms, and I cannot look away. I only urge them on with my tingling fingers, watch them with weary eyelids. They want neither berries nor mushrooms, not even a lamb. They want me—my time, to consume all of me, while they dance in my palms. But I cannot reach them either.
