The Literary Review, June 22nd, 2000
I. They call me Daughter of Darkness, Pomegranate Girl, call me wanton, say I yielded foolishly to some wild force surging through curled fronds and came to harm because I could resist no more than Sibyls roused to madness by Apollo's kiss. But there is more to bitter sacrifice than this. II. Everywhere that day were poppies: silver light and pollen like gold boats bobbing in lakes of air. The fragrance of my carefree life rose higher than incense on Greek altars. Yet for me the morning seemed sadder than all supplication, more desperate than twilight birds calling "Lost, lost," more choked w...
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