by Tantra Bensko
The stoney spheres feel the force of their own cemented sand. It weighs them down. They reach their mind into the deep deep ground. Through layers of porous sand and carbonates. They are that deepest ground 6 million years ago. What is time to a Trovant? They breathe in and out through their past, their birth during the ancient earthquake. Poeta-trauma that made them what they are. Hard nodules inside with a soft interface with air outside, shifting, touching, moving. Transformations between layers of chemical miracles deposit more solidity made from rain. In short: they grow, and quickly, piling on globule after globule, something out of nothing but original rock, like stone soup.
They pulse into their current moment, in Romania, moving. Moving along the sand in the night. Growth one one side flips them over, growth again, and they roll, and they find their home to put down roots when they are ready to move away from their family, and grow breasts and new round grey babies on their backs that they love like themselves. They live in the quarry, and they grow their own home. Bulges of rounded softness, like mother, like memories, like fat. All they have to look at rain and the gain weight. They are lovable like Mammies.
They are moving toward Târgu-Jiu.
No one in Vâlcea County ever sees them move. People only find them, in the daylight, with trails behind them in the sand, newly juxtaposed with different scenery, fresh installments in the landscape of love. All one eruption, all one geometric meaning, one perspective, one heart that is all of them at once through time, breathing slowly in and out of size and water.
When it rains, they grow from being 6 milometers to 6 meters! Oval blain-like forms exude. Their children. They have exceedingly nuclear families. Minerals expand beneath the crust, not wanting to ever erupt and break and spew again, but remain contained, earthly, embracing round. They can never fear eruption again if they are everything, including it. Crust accommodates, and they are an earthquake under their control, exploding themselves into little reach-outs of the inside, stretching upward, outward, downward, not at home being only where they are, sitting on the surface being small. They are the hollow earths.
They teethe, long for their old haunts at the center of the earth, want to hold on for dear life, want to plant themselves in a magic rock garden.
They grow roots.
No one understands their roots. Their genus, their gender, their catalogue of traits. Only a child could have dreamed them. A child open to nothing making sense. To night time mysteries that won’t grow up.
Their insides are rings, like any tree. Year after year, they make rings of rain-growth. They feel with their rings, they beat with their circles, their love for the ground they came out of, and want to get back to. They want to be all things at all times round, to be roundness upon roundness coming mysterious out of nothing but one rock that grows overnight like a Cheshire mushroom that says you will never be able to go back to being what you were when you were nothing at all like this.