Our Virgin Mother Talks With The Waxing Cresent Moon
Our Virgin Mother has a little dog She loves dearly, a fluffy, scruffy spotlessly white and endlessly needy girl-creature who must be petted, yes, but also must be chaperoned on her every venture outside because of her disgusting habit. She eats her own waste. A canine version of the ouroboros devouring its own tail, but not uncanny like that fearful snake, and so nothing symbolic about it. Just gross.
The Virgin excuses the little dog’s compulsion to her several rounds of motherhood. Cleaning the nest for her puppies was an instinctual task, a task once learned, it seems, she cannot unlearn. So morning and evening, Virgin and small, skippy dog stroll the sky, a necessary walk Virgin appreciates because it gets Her outside the gilded halls of Heaven to where She may breathe earthly air. On one such night walk She crosses paths with a couple of Her more inconstant sky Sisters, Moon and Venus.
It is the downside of winter, early dark, damp and chill, and Virgin feels the keenness against Her face. Cold is sharp on Her skin. Nerve endings sing with joy. She looks to the west — startles and gasps aloud. There in radiance sails a shining, girlish Moon. Alongside Her, diamond bright Venus.
Now Virgin knows the celestial schedules, that Moon is in Her newly hatched phase, that Her crescent self will be the crescent self She’s flaunted since Night first laid the first silver egg of Moon four billion years before Virgin Herself was ever born. But one of the lovely things about Immortality is how routine and ordinary events can routinely present as extraordinary.
It is, Virgin thinks, as if a shocking and unexpected surprise springs, springing out of the blue, happening this one and only moment in all the Ages of the universe. Some would call the phenomena a defense mechanism against boredom and madness. Immortality lasts awfully long.
Virgin is inspired to wonderment yet again, for the second millionth time, by a eggshell thin Moon, keen and white. Alongside Her lounges shining Venus, Moon’s diamond brilliant Girlfriend.
Virgin and Moon stop to chat. Venus never chats. What She does is splay Herself in exhibitionistic glory on the bed of Night, ready to fuck whatever stars swing her way. She has no shame and is ravishing in her shamelessness. Venus is by no means the first indecent sky goddess.
“Gentle Sister, you outdo yourself,” says Virgin to the maiden Moon. “Stunning look tonight.”
Moon smiles and blushes, ever hungry for praise. Virgin is convinced Moon shines more brightly since mortal poets, with their odes and hymns, came into being. It will be a sad day when bards go extinct and Moon must rely on the kindness of Immortals, a notoriously self-centered bunch.
“It’s the dress,” says Moon. “My favorite dress.” She always says that and never remembers having said it. “What’s new with You?”
Virgin inhales. “Smell the sweetness! Spring is already in the soil.” Virgin is partial to a northern temperate zone calendar. “The universe renews. I can depend on You to let Me.”
“You do tend to forget, dear,” says Moon.
“No. I don’t forget.” Virgin feels her reactive self getting huffy. Moon can be passive-aggressive. Don’t let the Bitch bait you, Virgin thinks. “I don’t forget at all.