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“ORPHEE”

By: Neil Gaiman

Orpheus was a musician. He made songs. He knew mysteries. One day the panther girls high on wine and lust came past and tore him flesh from flesh. His head still sang and prophesied as it floated down to the sea.

(Do not look back. Do not look back.)

There was a girl, and he said she was his girl. He followed her to Hell when she died. You could do that when your girlfriend dies: there are entrances to Hell in every major city: so many doors, who has time to look behind each one? When Orpheus was young he got the girl back from Hell safely. That’s where the years came from. Eurydice comes home from Hell and the flowers bloom and the world puddles and quickens, and it’s Spring.

But that was never good enough.

And before that Spring story, it was a life and death tale. We got a million of them. If he hadn’t looked back, if he just hadn’t looked back, then all the people would come back from the dead all the time, each of us, no more ghosts, no more darkness.

I would go to Hell to see you once more. There’s a door on the third floor of the New York Public Library, on the way to the men’s toilets, by the little Charles Addams gallery. It’s never locked. You just have to open it. I would go to Hell for you. I would tell them stories that are not false and that are not true. I would tell them stories until they wept salt tears and gave you back to me and to the world.

It doesn’t have to be a year. I’d take a day. I’d take an hour. I’d walk in front of you to the light.

But I’d look back, wouldn’t I? We all would. The ones who can’t look back, who can only stare into the sunrise ahead of them, stare into the glorious future, those people don’t get to visit Hell.

So Orpheus came back and carried on, because he had to, and he made magic and sang songs. He taught that there was only truth in dreams. That was one of the mysteries: in dreams the veil was lifted and you could see so far forward you might as well have been looking back.

Some die in Washington DC or in London or in Mexico. They do not look forward to their deaths. They glance aside, or down, or they look back. Every hour wounds. That was what she told me. Every hour wounds, the last one kills.

And looking back now, she’s standing naked in the moonlight. Her breast is already blackening, her body a feast of tiny wounds. Izanagi followed his wife to the shadow lands, but he looked back: he saw her face, her dead face, and he fled.

I dreamed today of bone-white horses, stamping and nuzzling in the bright sunshine, and of orange poppies which swayed and danced in the spring wind.

(Do not look back.)

She had the softest lips, he said. He said, she had the softest lips of all. And her head still sang and prophesied as it floated down to the sea.

[softcashmere]

"MAYBE SHE DREAMS OF RIVERS”

By: Francine Marie Tolf

I love her because she is exhausted and has fallen asleep on the train                with the book still clutched in one hand                while the other trails the aisle like a willow branch in slow green                                                water.                (Maybe she dreams of rivers.)

Because her shoes are thick-soled sneakers                and she wears a brown shoelace around her neck                strung with keys that rise and fall in a cluster against her breast                as they ride the rhythm of her sleep.                (Maybe she dreams of horses,                maybe her body is gleaming and supple.)

Because her hair is the orange of cheap dyes                and her skin is a blend of browns with freckles adorning                a face that is no longer young,                and her earrings are small bells                that are not silver but are delicate                as the eyelashes that flutter now and then,                as if a slight breeze combed the length of our car.                (Maybe June shimmers inside her,                maybe wind chimes are talking.)

I love her because the title of the book in her lap is How to Create Poetry,                and when she awakens with a start,                she looks down at it before she gathers her packages,                pulls a cap over her ears,                walks out of the train into a wordless winter night.

[softcashmere]

alrighty! cant wait to get started!