One morning, we awoke and the sun was warmer than usual. The movement of feet, and flailing arms. An uncontrollable urge. ‘Who are you to steal our sun?’ some urged… ‘who are you to weaponise light?’ We had our garden bodies stripped from sainthood and left to lie fallow. In the sun, the saintly are exposed. In the sun, the prey always burn. With 3 kicks to the ground, many others starts to follow. A contagious virus of movement. A dance.
We danced, and the ground wrapped around our feet, moving and pulling with each push and kick that we took against the earth. The fields were torn, mulched and shaped into hills. The germinating presence of others, towards ourselves went unnoticed in the frenzy for months. And we danced on a fallowed earth. Vomit thrown burns, and fist marks to ground. Broken hands against the dance. Bodies defined by the trauma, hanging skin and muscles tensed, shaped by the throws against walls. Bent legs against the rhythm.
A dry earth waited. Waited for the revenge of those who stole our sun. Those who weaponised light.
In the age of a weaponised sun - The cloud of impending night was always on the edge of the border. And as for once we were garden bodies, we danced in the light until we fell apart.