For our Lady of Spring, in dreamtime

I know it’s them in my dream, my mother and sister, but only because I recognise their voices. We paint our cheeks pink, wear flowery dresses, go out into the garden. The sky is pale grey, the sun hidden behind clouds. Maybe I should be cold. I am not. Mother goes round the house, opening all the windows, and when she comes back outside, she whispers, ‘We must welcome our Spring Goddess with respect, so go clean the floors, and wash the sheets. Then, while I prepare an apple pie with goat cheese, pick me each a snowdrop, and tonight I’ll press them in my diary.’

On our little altar, decorated with white candles and dolls woven from reeds, I place three glasses of warm milk my sister has put fresh cinnamon powder in. What happens next is all a fog; I have passed out, but my ears are alert, like a wolf’s, and I hear things. Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know. If she doesn’t come to us, death might. Then I cough until my lungs are afraid of air.

And I have lost my mother’s and sister’s voices.

And I am blind.

Now awake and out of my dream, it is winter—the stillness of the lake disturbed only by my heartbeat. Before they seal my eyes with silver coins and cast me into the water, I hope I can see my mother and sister one last time.

Blessed be Beltane

It’s almost the end of April and I have burned everything from back home, including my old books. Some say I’ve desecrated my connection with my past, with my time in my homeland. But I do not care about their opinion. For a woman, the moment she realises for the first time what her capacities are, is like no other moment. She finds out there was power in everything the boys at school were mocking her for. Each word of wisdom from the old ladies in her life seems like a mantra of self-persecution now. Her mother and father were not trying to protect her, but to protect themselves. So, the woman finally understands that her truth has always been inside the flesh she wears, and she is finally able to wear it with pride.

I must get ready, and there is so much to be done. It’s been a long winter and I spent it afraid, withering in solitude, comforted only by my sour breath and occasional dreams in which my beloved grandmother talked to me about her life in the spirit world. Dying is easy and I could join her, she said, but I refused her invitation. My parents are too young to cry over my corpse. I’m not going to die, not yet. I might be skin and bone, but that’s not a sad diagnosis. The power is in the warmth of my womb. I’m ecstatic for the beginning of spring, and I flutter around the house like the moths that have found their ends in my afternoon cups of peppermint tea (yes, I drank the teas with the moths in them for good luck, but no one is sad about their absence so I don’t feel guilty).

Tomorrow is an important day. It’s time for the dictatorship of God, the Ruler, the Husband, or the Father to be replaced by the Goddess who encapsulates all her sacred feminine forms, from the Mother and the Wife, to the Solitary Priestess, the Protective Sister and the Queen of Knowledge.

I want to reclaim my true self through an army of worms and caterpillars. I have in my hair a flower crown made of wild-flowers, motherwort and rosemary, and two dried spiders I found pressed between the pages of a Latin dictionary bought from a second-hand bookshop when I’d just moved to this town.

The Lovers card is on my altar. My lovers who slept will now be awake and this is my promise of an idyll. I hope they’ll appreciate my offerings: milk chocolate, honey, dried apricots, raisins, and a small cotton bag filled with the teeth of my old cat, Lusi.

I told my mother when I left, ‘Mother, you think I’m going to be alone because you don’t believe in them, but I do, and they’ll open their moon and stars for me among the lilies, tulips, and lilac in my new garden.’ Mother smiled kindly and told me that she hadn’t thought about things that way, and what a wonderful daughter I was, but I knew she only said that to be polite. She won’t change her mind until she sees what I’m talking about. And she will.

There is not enough hot water in the house, but tonight I will bath in milk and charcoal salt, to make sure my skin is as soft and clean as my old sisters deserve to wear. When I’m done bathing, I’ll burn my sage and cast a circle of white candles around me, and sing to the spirits loud, from the bottom of my lungs.

O blood, O blood, how fluid and thick,

between your warmth and my skin        

are these words carved with such artistry

I have done it again

taste it, dark red.

A Woman Waiting

Plenty of things were hidden in her eyes, but her husband didn’t really notice any of them, partly because he lacked interest, partly because he’d been half in and half out of life for over a year. His unfortunate condition hadn’t stopped him from returning home though.

She had anticipated his return for months. Would he read the newspaper on his old armchair, she wondered, or swim in the early morning, before the sun came up bright and strong? Could he move back in, or is that not how death works? She didn’t know for certain what the rules were, but she liked the rhythm of her hopeful thoughts.

On the first night of his return, he arrived quiet as mist, touched with the smell of the woods and rain. In their old bed, she tossed, turned, and wept to hear his heavy voice coming from the walls, but she didn’t see him. ‘Is that you, my love?’ But she was sure it was him, that night and the following nights. At the moment gloaming set in, he would crawl back inside the thick walls and stay there until morning.

Her heart was troubled. ‘Why are you not talking to me? Please, tell me what you need, let me take care of you as I’ve always done!’ Days passed without an answer, and she decided it would be best to confront him. One evening, guided by a momentarily impulse of courage, she took a shovel from their barn and drove all the way to the graveyard where he had been laid to rest. Inside the wooden coffin, he was cold and waxen, his clothes dishevelled and mouldy, and his hair long and brittle. He was more maggoty carcass than man. After waiting by his grave in silence for hours, she realised her husband simply didn’t want to talk to her, then or ever. She left, saddened but proud of her courage.

On the way home, she grew afraid he might be disappointed by her impulsive behaviour. Who am I to disobey my husband, she thought, he always cherished his privacy and now I’ve gone too far, what if things get fraught? But everything was alright. When she arrived home, he was waiting in his old armchair, reading the newspaper with his empty eye sockets, the coffee he drunk spilling through the holes in his cheeks.

The Good Sister

It’s nine-thirty in the evening. Clara is cleaning the table. She piles dirty plates on top of each other, until they make a small castle of china, which she takes to the kitchen. Her sister, Laura, follows Clara with the rest of the dishes. ‘I can wash, and you dry up?’ Clara’s voice sounds softer than usual. She doesn’t know how to bring up the topic. Maybe I should wait until we’ve had our tea, she thinks.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Laura replies. ‘I’ll take the bin out as well.’ She starts putting the leftovers in a black binbag, carefully, as their mother used to. In fact, everything their mother did in her life was a lesson in tact and patience, something Clara always found terribly dull. But not Laura. She is still fond of that kind of neatness.

Everything is going smoothly. Clara drowns the dishes under a big cloud of detergent, filling the room with the smell of fake lemon. She rubs her hands together now and then, uncomfortable with how wrinkled her skin turns under hot water. Laura dries up each plate, glass, and piece of cutlery, and puts them back in the cupboards and drawers, arranging them by size and colour. Even if this is not her house, she knows her way around. So well she can easily tell that someone else has been spending time over.  

‘Are you going to tell me more about him?’ Laura asks.

Clara stares at her. ‘Who?’ She tries to fake surprise. If Laura knows anything about him, the information certainly came from the wrong people. It’s best to wait, Clara thinks.

Laura’s sigh sweeps through the kitchen. She doesn’t have the energy to get into an argument with her sister. If she wants to keep secrets from her, then so be it. People are talking. How old is he, anyway? Late fifties? Never been married. No children. Some sort of painter, but no one has seen any of his work. He lives all by himself in that old, huge house by the river. If he ever has guests, it’s hard to tell. There’s only ever one room lit in his place. Why would he need a Victorian mansion if he’s not going to use all of it? There are large trees in the main garden, and it’s hard to check on his place without being intrusive. He rarely goes out during the day, except when he shops twice a week at the grocer’s, to get sourdough bread, fresh pasta, smoked bacon, eggs, milk, and sometimes dried prunes or apricots. A few of the neighbours are worried. Some have daughters. No one is implying anything, and they won’t know for sure what he’s capable of until… And no one wants to live with that kind of fear.  

‘I hope you don’t think I’m being rude,’ Laura says, placing her hand on her sister’s shoulder, ‘but you mustn’t see this man anymore. You’re going to upset everyone! We think he’s daring and vulgar. We’ve heard about his affairs, and that’s not how we do things here.’

Clara’s eyes flicker with rage. She goes to the fridge and takes out an opened bottle of red. She pours herself a glass and takes a long draught. ‘Thank you for coming over tonight, it was great to see you. I’m feeling rather tired, so I’d like to call it a night. See you again next week? Your place?’

This wasn’t the reaction Laura expected. Pride doesn’t let her stay quiet. ‘Look, you can either tell me more about him, and I’ll talk to the other townspeople to soften their hearts, or we’ll have to do something about this unfortunate situation.’

‘Do something about what?’ Clara says, wryly and laughs. She gulps down the wine in her glass. ‘Privacy is a blessing in this shithole, isn’t it?’

‘If you would just listen—’

‘I can’t, this is all so silly!’

Again, there is that quiet, tense moment in the kitchen—Clara sits on a chair, looking down at her feet. She arranges her black dress and tries to remember how long she has had it hanging in her closet. The more she thinks about it, the more she realises she’s no memory of purchasing it. Laura looks at her, and then away, and then makes herself comfortable on the floor, at her sister’s feet.

‘It’s not like I want to interfere in your life,’ Laura says. ‘But I think it’s time someone talks sensibly to you. Come on, you must know by now what truly concerns us. Mrs Nadia knows a girl who had a friend that dated him. They were engaged and everything. She was five years younger even than you!’ Laura moves closer, touching Clara’s knees, as their mother used to when she wanted to share one of her many dark secrets. ‘No one is accusing him of anything, but the girl disappeared one day, and never returned…’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Well, I’m just thinking here. A young, smart girl like that? Wouldn’t it have been more logical for her to go back to her parents if they’d separated? Why leave and never return?’

‘Don’t talk like that!’ Clara gets up and starts pacing, measuring the room with her feet. ‘I can see that there’s a lot of unusual interest in him. I’m sure he won’t mind responding to all of these…concerns. Why not ask him next time he’s in town?’

How awful of Clara to be so defensive, Laura thinks. It’s her duty as an older sister to look out for her. Laura hesitates a couple of minutes over what she should say next, but can’t think of anything. So she decides to show how offended she is by rushing towards the door. ‘I thought you’d appreciate my kindness. I guess I was wrong.’ She gets dressed, buttoning her coat angrily. As she leaves the house, she turns quickly and says, ‘Darling, I didn’t mean for us to fall out this way. I have to protect my dignity more than anything, and I’ve really tried to open your eyes, haven’t I? I’m sorry. I’ll keep my distance from now on.’ She turns and walks away slowly, expecting Clara to come out and apologise, but all she can hear is the door slamming behind her.

Clara goes upstairs to the bathroom and analyses in the mirror the black dress she’s wearing. It’s delicate and sleek and fits her body perfectly. It’s shorter than she would usually wear and more revealing—it shows her entire freckled cleavage. How could I have not noticed that this wasn’t mine when I put it on earlier? she wonders. I would never buy a dress like it.

The phone rings and rouses her. She rushes downstairs and answers.


‘Hello,’ a deep voice replies.

‘Hey,’ Clara says, recognising the voice. ‘How have you been?’

‘Fine, thanks. We need to talk.’ He coughs and pauses. ‘How do you like the dress?’

‘I like it alright.’ The lie leaves her shaking, but she keeps herself calm by tapping on her leg, as her mother used to. Funny how we all turn into our mothers eventually, Clara thinks. ‘Would be great to see you. I’m free tomorrow,’ she continues, making an effort to sound cheerful. ‘Come over for dinner?’

‘I’m afraid it can’t wait. I’ll call a cab, be there in no time.’

‘Sure. See you soon.’

Clara’s heartbeat synchronises with the ticking of the wall-clock. ‘Where is he?’ she asks herself out loud. Why is it taking him so long? She sits on the couch, with her back straight and her hands on her legs, tapping. Tap. Tap. Then her fingers are chasing the lace flowers on the dress. She recalls everything Laura said earlier. Nonsense! Those jealous people with their filthy mouths and ridiculous ideas, thinking they can get away with saying such horrible things about someone they barely know. In the back of her mind, she is aware she doesn’t know much about him either. She tries to create a timeline of their moments together, how they met, their first kiss, the passionate nights. Everything is rather vague. Shouldn’t she remember those moments in greater detail? But there’s no time to think of this right now, as she can hear heavy footsteps approaching the door. She opens it before he can knock and invites him in.

Beautiful Companions

‘Close the window, darling.’

‘I don’t want to. I like the sounds coming from the frozen lake. What’s your problem?’  

‘Calm down! I don’t want to start a fight. It’s freezing, that’s all.’

‘The thing is you never want to start a fight, but every second with you stings like a mosquito bite. You’ve been terrible for weeks. I know what you’ve been doing. You are sick. You make me laugh!

I turned around, taking a moment to tame my anger, then turned back and looked into his eyes—they were black as tar. That was grief, and grief, like a wild animal, feeds on fear and sorrow.

‘Look at me!’ he said. ‘This house smells rotten. You want what I have, dead woman! Nobody talks out of that body of yours. I have been a patient man, showing you sufficient mercy and care, and still, when I’m off to bed, you sneak into my bedroom and feed your snakes on life. On my life! You disgust me!’ He leaned closer and spat at my face. I slapped him and left the house for a walk in the quiet winter. When I returned, he was waiting for me, marked with regret, on his old brown leather armchair.

‘You must be careful about going out there at such a late hour!’ he said. ‘People nowadays are capable of terrible things, things like this and that.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s true, but I’m not afraid, I said, and kissed his forehead. ‘You are right about the things you said earlier. Well, about some of those things, not all of them’

‘I know. I still want you to stay, snake after snake. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to love another woman. I won’t, thought. Love another one. I want you to know that. Now go and get ready for bed.’

‘Thank you for this,’ I said, and went upstairs. He joined me a half an hour later.


In the morning I couldn’t find him anywhere. I searched for hours, and even asked my snakes if they’d seen my man, but my snakes hissed at me and slithered inside the walls. I cried and scratched my face until it bled and hid under the covers to cry a bit more. I must have fallen asleep because I dreamt that I was dead. In my dream, all my senses had quit me. I didn’t know where I was, and I couldn’t hear a sound. My eyes were shut, and I was unable able to move. I wanted to breathe the desperate breath of numb lungs, but there was no air coming in and out of my nostrils. Inside my mouth, there was a big cotton pad, filling my cheeks. Was I truly dead? It was hard to tell, between the awareness of my situation and the lack of movement in my body. I woke up eventually, covered in sweat, and it was dark outside. I felt grateful for the use of my body, my ears, my eyes.

Taking a longer look around, I realised my man hadn’t left. All his clothes were neatly arranged in the oak wardrobe. On the dressing table, exposed as an offering, there was his collection of cigars. Hanging on the mirror, his hat. And that’s when I saw him. I was wearing his body, tall and proud. Parts of my old skin were still visible on my arms, but I knew it would look smooth by the next day.

I opened the wardrobe and chose to wear his dark blue polka dot suit. I returned to the living room, to smoke on his old brown leather armchair, and my snakes came out of their hiding places to congratulate me on my outfit choice. 

Feeding stillness with life

–Do you have the rabbit legs?

–Yes, I do. It wasn’t easy. The rabbits were running very fast.

–How about the mort twine?

–Yes, one, from the old man selling spring onion and tomatoes at the corner of our house.

–That should do. Have you been followed?

–No. I have the other thing as well.

–What other thing? Oh, that other thing. Good girl.

–I want him to love me.

–He will. You know what to say?

–Yes, mother.

–And when to say it?

–Yes, mother.

–Alright, then. Everything goes in the metal box, and then under the oak tree. Tomorrow night. Not the menstrual blood. That goes in his stew.

–Yes, mother.


I now have his head. It looks rather odd without its hands, feet, and torso. I placed it in our garden, where the birds usually pause to take a deep rest on a warm afternoon or to hide from the rain. Despite the head’s decomposing state, there is a glowing aspect to it. It reminds me less of my man when he was alive and more of the animal craniums that one finds in the depths of the forest if one has the time to search for something like that. I caress carefully the skin left on my man. I wish I could sing to him, what an act of love you’ve offered me, bless it be, bless it be’ and I start singing, surprising myself, for I’ve never sung before. There in my garden I promise to remain worthy of my new life, and the birds flying around must agree with me, which explain their continuous clamour.

There is a small forest growing inside the cranium. The cranium is embroidered with tulip petals, wings of moths and butterflies, pages of old books smelling of vanilla glue and mildew, curled yellow nails, and long strands of black hair, hair that is not exactly hair, but a new and unnamed type of flora—the result of excellence and dedication. It should bother me, but its miasma is comforting—pungent, similar to a sweaty scalp.

Everything inside the skull is dead tissue, except for the pink lump which has the tiniest heart I have ever heard beating. I have spent so many of my days putting her together—yes, it’s a her, I’ve made sure of that—and now I’m waiting to see signs of movement. It’s too soon to tell how long this could take. At this moment, I can only hear her breathing if I move my ear closer, but I’m not sure if it’s actual breathing I hear or simply the soft wind guiding nature to feed this still life.

Inside my house, I inhale deep, over and over again, the smoke coming from an incense stick, praying for forgiveness and perhaps for a cure. Inside my flesh there’s what I feared the most—a visitor that has found its way into me when I wasn’t paying attention. This is not the product of my imagination, for I saw her once, six months ago, when I woke up during the night due to overheating. The sheet under me was so damp, I thought I’d wet myself, so I went to the bathroom to freshen up. In the large mirror is where I saw her for the first and last time, or parts of her—sharp fangs, long yellow nails, black hair. I have wondered since why I did not react in any way. I only stood there, unblinking. I knew who she was, or rather what she was, and by then there was nothing I could do to chase her away. If only she wouldn’t live in my womb.

I have not thought about her in some time. I do not feel entirely well—what does she want this time? Strangely, I can hear the wind asking me to come out, to go and check the pink lump—it’s still there, inside my man’s skull and all seems calm for now. Be strong, I say assuming the lump can hear me, as I face the struggle of being alone with my visitor for a great number of days. I must learn how to do this by myself, until the new life is old and wise enough to take care of me.

A tune for a swollen womb

She sleeps soundly when she is at his place. The first few times, he doesn’t mind she sleeps in late and misses breakfast and morning coffee, but after a while this becomes irritating. He decides to buy a cockerel from a neighbour, hoping the bird will wake his girlfriend with its loud singing. But the crowing doesn’t help and that bothers the man, so he takes care of it. One evening, he and his girlfriend eat a delicious rooster stew, with pointy red peppers, aubergine, courgette, and potatoes. They sprinkle plenty of salt and pepper on the dish and enjoy a few glasses of red wine after. They hold hands and whisper ‘I love you’, and move into the bedroom, where their bones contort, crackle, dislocate. A week after winter comes, she moves in.


‘Morning,’ she says one day, and he’s pleased she’s found the strength to get up early. ‘I’ll go and freshen up.’ She combs her hair looking at herself in the large bathroom mirror and keeps combing until she disentangles all the knots and worries in her head. She decides it’s time for a haircut, and after she is done cutting, she takes a long time analysing the strands surrounding her feet.

This hair came from me. It’s mine, she thinks. Is this the best I can do? My cells have been producing life and now there’s this dead tissue on the floor and nobody will cry for it. Is this all? She places her hands on her belly, yearning to feel movement. It is impossible. Her womb is empty and dry, a candied fruit that can feed no children, only the hopes of a desperate man who is waiting. I want the courage to tell him. She stares at her reflection and the large, blue veins around her eyes remind her of caterpillars. The day feels exhausting already, so she takes a nap on the velvet couch in the living room.

She dreams of her body pumping with life. She is laid down by the old ladies of her hometown and allows them to take care of everything. She sweats and shakes with pain and excitement, ready to meet the small person who has been living safe and quiet inside her. Her legs are open, and she grinds her teeth into calcium powder. Every bone and muscle in her body pushes him out, and out he is. The ladies clean the blood, the shit, and the placenta, and move the tired mother onto a comfortable bed.

When she wakes up, she finds herself covered with a fleece throw. There is no small person in the room, no exceptional act produced by her body, no ache between her legs. The urge is serious. She screams louder than in her dream.


He is much older than she is, but she never reminds him of that. It’s my fault, she thinks, he left his ex-wife pregnant. It’s my fault.

In their kitchen, it still smells of his old cat’s piss. What a tragic thing it was to put her down, poor Lucy! He makes his girlfriend a cup of Earl Grey tea and ask her to sit down with him. They sit on the sturdy chairs between the dark wood cabinets filled with stacks of plates and bowls, jars of mashed vegetables and jams, sweets, condiments that have been in there for over ten years, a few bottles of extra-virgin oil, cans of mushrooms and beans, bags of nuts, seeds, salt, sugar, and a box of eggs (the eggs are rotten, but you can’t tell until you break them and the smell hits you).

            ‘Is there anything we should talk about?’ he asks. He smiles.

            ‘Yes, but I don’t have the strength to say it,’ she says.

            ‘It’s okay. You can tell me anything.

She tells him everything she’s been worried about, and he bends in front of her, to kiss her knees and hold her hands. She falls into his arms, sobbing and then laughing, and crying hysterically. He understands and kisses her wet lips. She opens her mouth, and her silver tongue swirls into his. They kiss until spring arrives.


Spring comes and washes away the mould on the outside of their house. It’s still cold, but they wrap themselves in each other’s limbs and then in a pile of thick quilts. The trees grow dense, and the cicadas announce a yellow moon.

‘Have you ever seen a yellow moon before?’ she asks. He hasn’t, so they walk outside, into nature, to watch the sky expanding. Violent thunder paints the moon in purple and gold. The leaves break tenderly from their stems, heavy with rain. In front of their eyes, there is a spectacle of light and colour, then the rain turns torrential and they go back inside.

‘I think this is it,’ he says, and brings her three white candles.

She lights them and sings:

Dear Moon, I call upon your power,

amniotic fluid around the sweet meat of

my warm and swollen womb, with life

right here with the others

to hurt for the first time.