Wild boar to help you get strong We recounted the fables their Persian origin

Wild boar to help you get strong we recounted the

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doctors, he...” “Wild boar, to help you get strong.” We recounted the fables, their Persian origin, the circumstances of their telling. How he loved travelers, especially from the East. I see Aesop on his balcony, the wind making him blink his eyes; he has on dark blue trousers, yellow sash and gold blouse and carries his doll and is smiling and nodding. Was it his profound understanding of life that made such a difference? He showed breadth of mind at all times. Revealing human character through animal traits, he taught us the comedy of our faults and aspirations. Alcaeus has begun writing letters, to protest against this outrage in Adelphi, to alert friends, to cry out. ( High on a hill, I sit and stare at my bare feet and try to guess how many steps they have taken. I peer at my legs and consider the color and texture of my skin. I rub my hands over my knees and ankles. What of Phaon’s feet, the rigging they have climbed and the decks they have walked? Storms have crashed over him. He has held his ship to sun 71
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Voices from the Past and stars, legs spread wide, feet on the planking. Does the sea mean so much to him? Is it his woman? As I watch the arrival of boats in the bay, the unloading at the dock, I keep remembering his brown face. ( The rains have begun. They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard, draining noisily. I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat a strip of rawhide on four pegs. Around me the girls sit and chatter. Heptha and Myra weave together, working at one loom, whispering. The rain and wind come together over the house. Laughing secretly, Atthis and Gyrinno dash off, padding through the rain, across the court. Kleis unwinds my ball of thread and keeps paying it out slowly, rhythmically, her hands in time to a song she is humming to herself. The white wool is restful. I can weave nothingness or I can weave in my whole past, the sea, my house, the cliffs, the trees. My fingers are Phaon’s. ( I have not changed my mother’s house since she died because change is no friend of mine. Occasionally, I have had to repair or refinish a table, and a chair or picture, but were mama to return tomorrow she would feel at home. I often think that I will meet her, as I go from one room to another, mama gliding softly, smiling, holding out her warm hands to me...we would sit and weave by the window, the sea beyond, our voices low. With our terra-cotta lamps gleaming, we would talk until late, too sleepy to chat any longer. 72
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Sappho’s Journal I can’t remember my father, he died so young. His lineage, extending to Agamemnon, frightens me: That inheritance must carry into these thick walls and the glazed tiles—a strong house. Mama gave me his royal flute, said to be carved from a bull’s leg, but it has been years since I have taken it from its silk-lined box. Its sickly color never pleased me.
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