Creative Writing: Sappho Masques

Warning: Mature Themes

I have buried in the grass follicles

the loose straw, the fresh yellow of it

while my eyes look on.

This is a ritual honouring the sorrow

young plants

undergo. I have planted my eyes

in the waste reeds and their trembling. No.

No. You are supple and powerful.

When the night comes I will wear you in a crown.

. . . .

The tones of the lapped waves on thighs,

marble sand, your bronze.

Moon lapis of ocean,

come to where your fire is

and we will lie out at ease together.

We will heave our black sighs.

And I will tell you what it meant to be a person

like Dawn.

For you have no attachments.

For we can stay here as long as we like.

The schoolyard of girlhood:

broad, placid, vulpine.

Was there caste to assert?

There was air to love. Breezes

shook open vaults, dusted rooves.

I remember myself as a leaf

carried about by others,

not even a hyacinth. My loves

were older than I was.

Where, darling, would I place you?

. . . .

If you arose from the dusk-yard of my youth

what would you be?

I ask you to make love.