As the pianist transitioned, Mona thought of Lily and Tash, her found sisters, her string animal. Together they made new folds in time. Mona swayed and clapped and stomped. She looked at the women, could see their freedom, seamless and flying in high praise. The fever of the weeping rejoicing room ripped wormholes through her by which she expanded outwards, rebounding against the sounds of every ancient society, colliding into the trumpets and the bells of the billowing universe—once known and now and again lost in the clamor of freight trucks and cityscapes, telephones, talk, blocks over cinderblocks—here, in God’s house, it was not the lamenting cry of the Minotaur at the center of the Labyrinth, but the Labyrinth of sparks Herself, creation fires, circle dances...