Red hot in the dark
I can see the hot metal poking through
The boring blackness of my forge
Trapped within the hot pink walls
I hold it
In my delicate, muscular hands
Holding my hammer at the ready
Tapping and convincing the steel
To get
Into shape
Into submission
Into art
It succumbs
And now it's cold, brilliant beauty is captured
For all to witness in the light of day
I am a woman
I am a blacksmith
I am an artist
I am a magic maker
About the Creator
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova7 days ago in Poets
The Salt in her Voice
The myth says mermaids sing to lure sailors to their death. But why? The ocean is huge. Only 5 percent has been discovered by man. Why would a creature of the sea with that much space to roam ever care about the fate of men on ships? The answer, as it turns out, is not a simple one at all. The truth about the myth is older than the tides. Long ago before the first ship ever cut across the surface, the sea made a pact with the sky. The sky would take the souls of the drowned. Anyone who died in storms or any quiet accidents of the deep would have their soul lifted upward to the Heavens while the bodies would remain below, feeding the oceans endless hunger. The greedy sea however wanted more souls than the sky would claim. So it created mermaids. It gave them beautiful voices woven from currents and moonlight. It commanded them to sing. "Bring forth the ones who float where they should sink." it instructed them. So they did. They never killed out of malice but out of obligation. They sung to summon, not to seduce. A mermaid's voice could loosen the tether between the body and soul, making any man step willingly into the water. The sea would take the body and the sky would take the soul. Balance maintained.
By Sara Wilson4 days ago in Fiction
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