She joined her brothers, tossing knucklebones,running barefoot races down the docks of Mytilene.
Like beggars, they sponged up sweet figs from strangers,
honey cakes, a kylix of sour wine they choked down straight
until they giggled home, the day a sea of glittered waves
behind them. Her mother dragged her by the braid
across the portico, had the slaves undress her, doused
her daughter's stained skin with hot oil and set her,
drowsed, at the loom to count threads, while in her head,
she added syllables.
Phoebe North, Mimesis 5
imagem: Safo, de Heva Coomans
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