domestic dilettante, humorless feminist shrew

This is 2/3 of what we did this week:

The first one is from Margaret Atwood’s poem Spelling:
My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.

I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.

A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.

I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.

A word after a word
after a word is power.

At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.

The second is on Nick’s calf–it’s Maura’s name (circa 2008) and a cat that she drew around the same time. I love it madly.

I also madly love the remaining 1/3 of this week’s activities–another Maura name and drawing, this one of an ice-fishing penguin, that’s on my foot. Pics of that forthcoming, as it was a bit more swollen and raw looking than the other ones. Give it another day or two.

This weekend is my little sister’s wedding reception. It’s completely bizarre to me that she’s no longer seventeen.