This poem is inspired by Audrey’s Nymphs and Satyrs
Water is nothing and everything.
Rain falls for gravity only, and how it loves the fall,
waves crash at the mercy of the moon, over and over and over again.
Love slipped through my fingers
He rests at the bottom of my waterlogged heart.
There is no moon to pull him back,
no gravity to steady my hands,
and I am trapped here
Stay tuned for Anne’s No Rules Friday next week.
3 November 1793
The bells are ringing in Saint-Germain-des-Prés across the Seine. I pull my shawl tighter with each peal as I try to keep my slippers clean as I walk as quickly down the Rue Honoré. The pale pink shoes are the only nice thing I have on. It wouldn’t do to wear the matching silk gown. Papa would have noticed that slipping out the back gate. I borrowed the dress and shawl from Claire, but her feet were too big and her boots clunked and slipped when I walked. I glance up at the darkening sky.
A shout from a man on a mud-splattered white horse stops me. I nearly ran into its path. I turn and cling to a lamppost and lean my cheek into it, squeezing my eyes shut tight. Maybe this is a bad idea.
I came down to breakfast this morning to find Mama fretting around the house, her handkerchief pressing into her reddened eyes. I followed her to the blue parlor at the back of our townhouse.
“Mama?” I ask, placing a hand on her arm and turning her toward me. Her eyes dancing everywhere but on me. “Mama? What is wrong?”
Papa slams open the front door, thumps hurriedly down the hall, bursts upon us, and heads straight to the cognac on the sideboard. Two glasses later, he turns to us.
“It must be tonight, Mama.” She nods. Her eyes seem to focus as her pupils expand engulfing the blue into black.
continue reading …
Storm The Fields
Sometimes nature does this thing where it steals my breath. Maryland, Summer.
Storm the Fields © Jennifer Tilley 2013
(The Golden Ratio)
“Jin Zhēn-Zī!” Māmā shouted from the back room over the slam of the door. “I told you not to leave the back door open.” The sharp click of the lock admonished me further.
A pristine sheaf of paper laid in front of me as empty as it was when I first sat down. The chair abraded the wood floor and banged into the wall when I got up too fast. “I’ve been working on sums all morning, Māmā! I haven’t left my desk.” Only the second part was true.
Harsh afternoon light streamed through the shop’s front windows. It bounced off the metal hangers holding the repaired garments along one wall. Bolts of fabric were stacked on tables and piled along the other wall. The new embroidered silk tunics were displayed in the very front, the price tags discreetly hidden in the sleeves. The back room stood dark where the sunlight couldn’t penetrate, the silhouette of my mother blended perfectly into the shadows.
When she appeared — her eyes opened wide like an owl and her mouth a tense slash across her face — all the muscles tightened along my body. Another figure moved behind her, materializing into a man holding a long silver blade in gloved hands against the base of her skull. The brush dropped from my hand, splattering black ink all over the polished wooden floor.
“What happened?” I said, my voice croaked against my tongue. I swallowed and tried again. “Māmā, are you okay?”
She kept her hands outstretched above her shoulders. I knew that pose and curled and readied myself for a fight.
continue reading …