My great-grandmother interpreted as she played, or played
from a score in the flickering light. How would she have run
with this? Single mother, migrant, royalist, leftover Huguenot.
That lusty ethereal necromancer priest, the general stuffed
into his uniform, his wife as object pursued through the limits
of imagination, Genica Athanasiou’s breasts exposed to collimated
gleam, shell scallop brassiere torn away, dangling in the clergyman’s
murderous soft hands. Confession. Taking flight. Lost at sea.
