Their heads circulated in her thoughts.
She was too tired to compose a smile.
Their voices were running wild across her house.
Their memories could not be contained.
Their past presence had meant something.
That she disassembled them all in the winds.
And she would dance in tremors of her own making.
Her body would release the tension of all truths.
And she would bathe and rid herself of them, of their
Cruel artifice. They tried to twist her around, silence her.
They became decomposed images made of sand.
And she would jump into uncertain waters and lose them all.
“Sappho” by Andrea Gastaldi (1826-1889)