One was victorious.

In a black forest of sorts.

She never wants to practice.

An object without a key.

He always responds.

This is the answer.

Heaven and Earth were at war for the same territory.

One was victorious. The other fornicated in a corner.

Remember we loved in a haze, black forest. Remember the "ifs".

Left to make and do.

It starts.

Birth

Ravens splattered the skies in celebration. Darkness left mother’s womb. Their

souls pierced her from the uterus out. Crying into light. Some things never change.

There, born of mystic fog waters, on an ancient battle port exchanged for profit

over time. Money and magic. A black head of hair. Jeta. Conceived of stardust

and rituals. Thick skinned, warrior. Honor. Grace. Sister of ravens, lover of little

difference. Neutral. Neutral. Neutral. Grounded.

Fathers were far away, problematic names. Strip-searched of speech, they debated

changing more than what was asked for. Bravery ran away, lightly from it's own

emotions, a coward-ing nature floating through life following orders from iron

handed big brothers, habitual liars and gluttons. Therefore Jeta's birth sounded of

dark wings and pierced dreams. A thousand different paths unfolding in the palms

of tiny baby hands. Grandmothers lied too, their megi tongues enslaved.

Simultaneously feared and respected. Their fire passed down from one generation

to the next. In any case, it was only women on the fateful day. Fruit blossoms

serenaded the countryside.

Jeta, the constant valentine to bees.

The motto to end all mottos.

Life is easier when you're sweet.

Side note

Honey is a natural antiseptic and an excellent moisturizer.

She, natural medicine woman. She, extensive knowledge concerning herbs,

remedies, various concoctions regarded as powerful tools for health and healing.

Skilled in the art of magic.

Fluent in language, master host - of comfort and appreciation.

Wit, intelligence, confidence.

Rare beauty.

Dirty fingernails. Clean homes.

I am the daughter of working hands. Gentle strong hands that spank and

serve and sow and bake. Hands that hold treasures such as soil, where all

begins. Where all ends. A soil treasured and cursed for giving and taking as

it pleases. And coins, archived in pouches under pillows, noting the change of

each regime. Ottoman coins. Communist coins. Democratic coins. Saved to

adorn the foreheads of brides. Saved to adorn the foreheads of the dead,

ensuring a safe journey in the womb of Not.

Split in half, fire and water at my edges, only Earth digs deep. Daughter of

summer heat, fall harvest. Fermented, canned winters. Mountain people,

painted faces and arranged marriages that would have failed if not for strong

traditions. Equanimous obscurity, odd odds and ancient dialectical-s. Dirty

fingernails, clean homes. The skin on the heels of my feet is broken and hard.

Blessings from the ground up.