Blossom of branches, and on each high hill
Clear air and wind, and under in clamorous vales
Fierce noises of the of the fiery nightingales,
Buds burning in the sudden spring like fire,
The wan washed sand and the waves’ vain desire,
Sails seen like blown white flowers at sea, and words
That bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds
Violently singing till the whole world sings —
I Sappho shall be one with all these things,
With all high things for ever; and my face
Seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place,
Cleave to men’s lives, and waste the days thereof
With gladness and much sadness and long love.
— A.G. Swinburne, Anactoria
We take the boat to a tiny chapel on the coast. Run down, ancient, more cave than building. Lord only knows how long ago the hands of men raised it to His Worship. The stones are carving themselves back into the ground.
Gina and I enter in silence. She leads the way past the few wooden benches, past a man, head lowered, whispering.
This air is damp.
At the far end of the chapel, an icon of the Madonna. Crows spring from her shoulders, white robes flowing down over her belly, swollen, pregnant.
Her hands turn up, outstretched. Eyes straight into my soul.
Shuddering, tears to my eyes.
Gina does not notice, crossing to light a candle where two others are lit.
I lower myself onto a cold, damp pew.
I wish I had brought a shawl.
Darkness falls in my heart, chapel fading. I’m alone in a white cell, light pouring through a single window. Nothing but the sound of my own breathing and my thoughts, violently in a cyclone.
Something breaking through the violence of the white, something shrieking, something longing to breathe, to expire, to die, to come through and come again, again and again and again.
On my knees, eyes held up to the window, tears streaming down.
God, face down on a bed of stars, shackled and bound to the four corners of Time.
Rainbow fire blazing, pushed up inside.
Yetzirim flash, yielding into infinite colour, soft hair plume perfumed skin soft and delicate melting together, whispers and wonder, purr, dying and dance.
Rain falling from our eyes, knowing this cannot last, back to life, back to the body, to songs and razors and photographs.
*
These crosses all over my body.
Gina standing in front of me. “I’ll be outside.”
****
Drive back to the island, sitting in silence, eyes out to sea where sunlight glitters on the ebbing tide.
Gina’s fingers finding mine, our hands softly entertwining.
****
The dreaded text comes.
I knew it would.
“Where the fuck are you Olivia? Your Mum is in hospital. It’s very bad. Come home. Call me for fuck’s sake. Dad.”
Shitshitshitshitshit.
“Jesus can always reject his Father
But he can’t escape his Mother’s blood
He’ll scream and try to —-”
Fuck you Ethel.
What do I do what do I do what do I do?
Scrolling through messages mums bad call me where are you Olivia are you ok whats happening were worried mum is really bad Olivia seriously its not a joke pickupthefuckingphone you selfish bitch Olivia im sorry come home are you alive were worried sick should I call the police where are you you have until Sunday then were calling the police Olivia please reply or call back or say something Mum might die she took pills shes in a coma shes not responsive Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia
Olivia.
****
On the plane.
Olivia, where the fuck are you?
Mum is in hospital.
She might die.
Screaming in my head screaming against walls plane engines roaring and I’m crying into them and hoping the wings come off or the fuel ignites or some Arab with a gun opens fire because anything would be better than where I’m headed.
Fantasizing about buying a razor in the airport.
Oh God please.
Around me fat British lads talking about birds and a posh old couple rudely awakened from their Classic FM wine tour by the realities of the suburban broletariat.
Blood Sappho, scarlet dripping from her thighs.
STOP.
Mum in hospital, Momma I’m coming home,your little girl, wait up for me, please I need you crying into your arms like when Amy called me an ugly freak.
Haven’t been in your arms for a long time, you crazy selfish alcoholic bitch.
Flying home to wish you to die in your hospital bed so the rest of us can move on.
Gina.
Why the fuck am I chasing Gina across Italy, rich beautiful self-absorbed narcissa Gina with me as a cute toy making her look young.
I miss her.
I wish you were here with me.
Why the fuck are they looking at me?
“You alright love?” asks fat Terry.
“I’ll bite your fucking cock off if you dare even look at me again.”
Awkward silence.
Cunt.
Where are the Germans when you need them.
Olivia Olivia Olivia my love, how did you end up here you stupid bitch?
They’re going to crucify you. They’ll never forgive you. But you’ve got to go home and say goodbye.
Oh shit.
Say goodbye.
***
Naked in my underwear
Hotel room alone
Razor in my fingers
Mirror straight ahead
Blood Sappho, scarlet dripping from her thighs
****
Let us not romanticize the first artists.
They used the most potent materials they could find, a curse which afflicts us all.
Blood, bone, faeces, semen, hair,
Voodoo mud and clay infused with the etherial material stains of animal life.
To pretend any less is to be dishonest to ourselves.
A crucifix is a totem blessed with life.
****
Yea, though though diest, I say I shall not die,
For these shall give me of their souls, shall give
Life, and the days and loves wherewith I live,
Shall quicken me with loving, fill with breath,
Save me and serve me, strive for me with death.
Alas, that neither moon nor snow nor dew
Nor all cold things can purge me wholly through,
Assuage me nor allay me nor appease,
Till supreme sleep shall bring me bloodless ease;
Till time wax faint in all his periods;
Till fate undo the bondage of the gods,
And lay, to slake and satiate me all through,
Lotus and Lethe on my lips like dew,
And shed around and over and under me,
Thick darkness and the insuperable sea.
— ibid.
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