The Nereidsby Joyce Sutphen
In the British Museum, I stand in front of the three headless Nerieds, remembering what you said. I am going ahead of you into the day. I imagine doing something famous to get myself on the news, but I don't touch the Nerieds; I don't try to liberate the one on the far right who walks on the remnants of her wings. I simply stand on one leg (sketching, I was about to say) trying to capture the wind in their robes, trying to feel it blowing through my hair and through the big room that seems changed from a minute ago when the floor was not crashing with waves and I was not hauled into the light falling from the wall. © 2008 by Joyce Sutphen. All rights reserved.