I love her and will not say loved. Listen, ears sharp as stings or stabs, not to birdsong or breeze, but to the words she once said and those words hanging in the air still, like goblin spite, and her laughter the same, the sound of water running over small stones. And I close my eyes and breathe deep, and I think I can smell Kitty’s skin and her hair and that warm place beneath her breasts.
The sun burns my upturned face and I am not mindful, nor am I myself for a moment, but am something else, like light, or dark, or light in dark, growing like a flower, opening and opening forever, red and purple and orange. And Kitty says something, I am sure she does, as sure as fever or fall.
Her favourite poem is Goblin Market, by Christina Rosetti; today it is – and not, Kitty says, because my name is Christina, too. And her favourite bit is when Lizzie lets sister Laura lick the fruit juices from her skin. And Kitty bites into a messy peach and bids me suck and kiss and drink from her wet lips. Forbidden fruit.
And I cannot now taste peach or melon or plum, not without it tastes of vinegar or gall or wormwood. My lips like Laura’s are scorched. And I hate Kitty then, but only as much as my loving her will allow.
Stay, I said. Do not go. Not to the beck or the stygian river – not unless it is to be dipped in up to the heel and thereafter be vulnerable in only one part like Achilles was. Stay, I said, here, close enough I can breathe you in, close enough we may be thought unnatural sisters by goblin spies.
Such confusion is in me, for then is now and now need never be. Not if it means losing Kitty. I hold her hand, her pale hand, limp in mine, and I mop her hot brow and her stricken cheek. And I pray to Gods I do not believe in, asking for them to hold back the blade of knife or sword, for Kitty is vulnerable in every part of her.
And her heart knocks, and it is the feeble knocking of a sickly child or an old woman. And I press her hand, holding it tight as never letting go. But she does go. Slips her grip of me so I am left holding an empty glove.
Kitty, and I love her and will not say loved. And I sit in the sun with my skin aflame, and I am not me or any part of me, but am light and dark, the one inside the other. And Kitty says again what she said before, only her words are clear as pinpricks or bites, and she says there is no such thing as happy endings, and she says it is time enough and past time, and she says to let her go now.
Patricia Ann McNair 
I love her and will not say loved. Listen, ears sharp as stings or stabs, not to birdsong or breeze, but to the words she once said and those words hanging in the air still, like goblin spite, and her laughter the same, the sound of water running over small stones. And I close my eyes and breathe deep, and I think I can smell Kitty’s skin and her hair and that warm place beneath her breasts.
The sun burns my upturned face and I am not mindful, nor am I myself for a moment, but am something else, like light, or dark, or light in dark, growing like a flower, opening and opening forever, red and purple and orange. And Kitty says something, I am sure she does, as sure as fever or fall.
Her favourite poem is Goblin Market, by Christina Rosetti; today it is – and not, Kitty says, because my name is Christina, too. And her favourite bit is when Lizzie lets sister Laura lick the fruit juices from her skin. And Kitty bites into a messy peach and bids me suck and kiss and drink from her wet lips. Forbidden fruit.
And I cannot now taste peach or melon or plum, not without it tastes of vinegar or gall or wormwood. My lips like Laura’s are scorched. And I hate Kitty then, but only as much as my loving her will allow.
Stay, I said. Do not go. Not to the beck or the stygian river – not unless it is to be dipped in up to the heel and thereafter be vulnerable in only one part like Achilles was. Stay, I said, here, close enough I can breathe you in, close enough we may be thought unnatural sisters by goblin spies.
Such confusion is in me, for then is now and now need never be. Not if it means losing Kitty. I hold her hand, her pale hand, limp in mine, and I mop her hot brow and her stricken cheek. And I pray to Gods I do not believe in, asking for them to hold back the blade of knife or sword, for Kitty is vulnerable in every part of her.
And her heart knocks, and it is the feeble knocking of a sickly child or an old woman. And I press her hand, holding it tight as never letting go. But she does go. Slips her grip of me so I am left holding an empty glove.
Kitty, and I love her and will not say loved. And I sit in the sun with my skin aflame, and I am not me or any part of me, but am light and dark, the one inside the other. And Kitty says again what she said before, only her words are clear as pinpricks or bites, and she says there is no such thing as happy endings, and she says it is time enough and past time, and she says to let her go now.
But I cannot and dare not.