There was an aureole burning
On the chandler’s son, from whom
His mother bought their evenings
Reading in the drawing room
With but four humours, how
Was he to describe an ambush
Springing from deep eyes, how
To explain near-transparent flesh
Or a voice downwind of Eden
In a world one shade brighter
He has hay-stung afternoons with
Translucent light leaving burns
Perfect, and gone too swiftly
His mother reads flickering print
And he is listening to the voice
Of the chandler’s brown-haired boy
He audits life with his mother
And plays cards with his father
He leaned in for a kiss
On the cheek, a crossette
To seal her answer
He never imagined they would become
Like his father and his mother
Offer prayers to dispassionate gods, with the ground you walk and the blood you trade. Hear, in the calls of the night and the sighs of the snow, the silence in their answers.
I was fascinated; silence as a measure of something, or of nothing at all.
But Sato was shaking his head. “You have a strange sense of humour Gen, if you were trying to be funny. That is not a book I like.”
The worn cover might have indicated otherwise, but I closed the book and folded it into my lap. Beneath one hand I still traced the sword upon its bindings, thin and crude when compared to the graceful characters traced on the pages. Continue reading “Orison”
…Continued from The Continental Ladies’ Academy
They had wandered in the tame forest for several days before finding the path.
Ribbons and lace caught on branches, or sometimes tied there purposefully, in saucy bows. The grass trampled by many bare or slippered little feet, the trees carved with crude hearts and letters.
S + E. K + P.
There was much exasperation in such things, as they were undeniably adorable. And because of them His Lady the Duchess was under strict review for the great escape, the kingdoms were all in uproar, and he was living out of a pack among the trees. Continue reading “The Continental Ladies’ Village”
Since Lavender left, school has not been the same.
It was unseasonably warm last week, and though we had noticed her restlessness we were quite shocked when she walked into the classroom without her many layers of undergarments and petticoats, of satin and lace. She wore (now infamous) leather breeches and a linen shirt that looked marvellously breezy. Sister Mary Tortella, not to be confused with the thinner Sister Mary Margaret, immediately cracked her stick on the lectern and told Lavender to make herself proper.
Lavender’s chin went up and she took her seat by the open window. We could tell that if one were allowed to cane royal flesh Sister Mary Tortella would have gladly done so at that moment. Instead she called for Our Lady the Duchess, under whose auspicious guidance our schooling takes place. Continue reading “The Continental Ladies’ Academy”
from The Trio I Adore
I am made from the dust of the stars
And the oceans flow in my veins
Here I hide in the heart of the city
Like a stranger coming out of the rain
The evening plane rises up from the runway
Over constellations of light
I look down into a million houses
And wonder what you’re doing tonight
Continue reading “Presto”