The light lasts longest now.

Sometimes, the birds sing at the right time, waking up at six am feels like a blessing, your body isn’t a millstone, it is a great wide pair of wings, your friends are vivid in front of you, the city is tangible – the smell of it exciting, the pavement warm under your feet with hyper-reality.

Some days, food is not political, the wind is warm, the sights you see are kind, the transport you take seamless and convenient, your home clean and welcoming, your bed soft, your eyes heavy, your soul light.

Clean body, full stomach, jobs done, and things in order for the next day.

Sometimes, you stroke dogs on the pavement, coo at babies who coo back, talk to smiling stallholders and link arms with people you love, and you feel as if the whole world is tripping out before you like a game and a gift.

 

Today, these past fews days, have been those days. I am thankful with every fibre of my being, and in love with being alive.

 

 

Receiving Notes from Mythical Women XII:

After a long absence, today’s note comes from Tracey Rosenberg. Tracey is a poet and novelist. Her blog is here. This poem originally appeared in Gutter Vol. 8, which can be bought here. Additionally, Tracey’s novel can be bought here.

Orpah’s Lament

Naomi told us: go home,

find new husbands in your own lands.

I have no more sons for you, only

a stranger’s austere bowl.

I stretched into the sun; I laughed

once.  Though the darkness streaked

behind us, I stood solid as the trees.

My hands were new pitchers

awaiting fresh water.

Naomi would need bear no burden

except the tiny blossoms I would bring her

every day, to remind her

that the joys of life

need not be eternal

so long as we bubble with praise.

Ruth crouched in darkness.

She cloaked her devotion in grief.

She pledged hard tears upon Naomi’s neck.

When I kissed Naomi goodbye

flowers dropped from my hands.

On the barren ground

they drew their shamed petals

into closed, dry urns.

 

Receiving Notes from Mythical Women: XI

Today’s Note from a Mythical Woman is an exchange between Philomela and Procne, and is sent in by Elodie Olson-Coons.

Elodie’s writing has appeared in The Literateur and McSweeney’s among many others, and she is a regular columnist for Work in Prowess. She blogs here, and can be followed on twitter: @elllode.

Philomela and Procne

PROCNE

Sister, do not shout
back.

Do not expose your
self
like film.
They’ll dip you in hot copper.
They will strip your tongue away.

You’re just a sparrow
They will tear out your
song.

PHILOMELA
go on and
wear your soft brown
thriftshop
coat.

wear those
heels
down.
trill your soft jazz song.

You can be a
falcon
you can be a
falcon.

PROCNE

I know how you have sung to
dirty and beloved ears.
I saw when your blood was blue with shame.

You slut-walk.
Meanwhile your sister saw-wings, saw-wings
away.

PHILOMELA

I know you love him and
I forgive you. I sing for you, too,
sister.

PROCNE

You sing for no-one.
You have become dumb.
My husband made you
dumb
when he jackknifed into you.

PHILOMELA

Oh, I have a knife
and juniper and butter and my teeth and my
grandmother’s oven.

I have a taxi number.
I have fucking pepperspray.

PROCNE

Oh, they are always furred and
roaming.
And today you are wearing

that?

PHILOMELA

You are a wolf, you roam the streets
home.
Be a wolf.

I prophesise an
epidemic.
I see the turning of the tide.

PROCNE

the nightingales are stitched and
splayed across the branches.

I see the children and the cameras.

In their eyes I see your eyes,
little sister.

PHILOMELA
Look on, sister.
Look up from the glittering
pool
of your drink.

I am not without fear
I am not on the brink
I am
the smallest of turnings.

PROCNE

Most importantly of all, do not get
drunk
do not
get

videotaped.

You are vincible,
my once-beloved one.

PHILOMELA

And you are growing old.
Look: how it is marked on my face. I do not heal. Despite and still
I go out.
I am not alone.

I am the tide.
I am survived by my familiars –
the oak and the pomegranate and
the wolf cub lapping oil from a lamp.

PROCNE

You are nothing but a match,
a blackened piece of tinder,
sister. I long to protect you.

PHILOMELA

Meanwhile the hoopoe sings.