Dance of the Preacher and Prostitute

He breathes. A beginning. The words swirl around the heavens, the dust, filling a space that was blank just before. Painting a vision, new sunrise, new horizon new beginning that was just previously dark. Lightened by a word.

She was there. To hear it. By chance or by design, either way. His words were alive, and they touched her hand. Because a word does not ever sit idle, it can’t. Unless it is unheard. But once the ear is awakened, the spoken magic changes who and what is touched. Even those who don’t deserve to be touched. Especially those.

And his words spin around in space. True and real, powerful and great, recklessly brushing the earlobes and necks, of the unfaithful ones. Prickling her skin. Exciting her imagination. Gently caressing and sinking deeper, into her heart. 

The chaotic dance has begun. Courtship of give and receive. Where he creates and she is created. But it’s just not that simple.

Preacher feels his power, maybe too late. Mistaken for order, the naming, defining. Leading and thrusting her into his arms. His right way intended to move her heart. He speaks, she receives. Allowed by the both to dream the reality. With words, and with lines, and with phrases, to be put to good use. For him, and for her. By the words from his lips.

But the chaos ensues. When the woman gives answer. Where she is created, and it’s not what he figured. He thought it was order, defining and naming, while her heart moved in story. Believing receiving. His plan, her reality. The words were the lines, and she filled in the blanks.

Because she can’t dance alone, twirling and grasping. And neither can he, preaching and catching. So it’s not that simple, the dance of the preacher. Surrender unscripted, the dance of the whore.

The story of order, of name, and of truth, still swirling, creating, propelling life in the dust. His seduction, uncertain, there’s only so much he can say. But if she hears, she receives, she admits, she is not it’s creator. A life will spring forth. And he is not alone, dancing with her. 

Her tender reaction exposes the story. Emotion too much. Consumed by the words. Not just seeing a story, but her life now unborn. Is he proud? Or regretful? Did he move her too much? Is she gullible, believing, did he tell her a lie? Or does she now dance in destructive word truth? Watching this woman, his own pulsing creation. A preacher rejoices or repents of his power. Feeling his words, she is one of two things. An honorable reflection, or a monster revealed.

The dance may continue. Or it may be too much. Just because the story is good, her dirty ears, heart and life drew it too close. Because this story became hers. And he sees now, it was not his alone. Not since he spoke it, not since she heard it. Released in the ether. Uncovered target. Terrified preacher. That his story is tarnished. That she took the lead. Did he fail? Or succeed?

Dance of the Preacher and Prostitute. Elation and pain. Trust and shame. When he tries too much, to predict her reactions. When she stands aloof, and won’t pour herself in. It shouldn’t be this hard. To create and be created. 

But it is. Hard. 

And we don’t always know what the dance will do.