Many Mouthed Mother (excerpt)
Dione was promised to the mother before she was sliced from the pink, her forehead crossed with the hot ash of her still-burning Seed. To her belly gave unction with the fluid of her birth.
For there are many mouths in the village, Seed and Birth were interred in the crops as nutrient soil. Mother’s hunger is patient, so Dione grew. When the sun still made its tributary across the blue above, she would have been called sixteen. Dione delighted in the daily benedictions of service as she was graced with rose petals and sweet aromatics by the laity.
Because she was promised, she existed for naught but itself. She was guarded too preciously to be taught, and regarded so rarely that by the time she grew hair where her limbs folded, she had scarcely heard another voice but her own. She could speak but not in words, only in tones whose lilliputian meanings was left only to the Mother to understand. Who better to interpret the will of the Mother than a mind clouded neither by words nor thoughts?
To be continued…