After what seems to me a lifetime and a crummy one at that – I walk into heaven, gliding along its smooth paths, and it’s lawns. I approach a building. No one is around but me.
The building is in the centre of some grounds. It is white marble, with Greek columns and goddess statues carved into the walls. Nike, with her wings is the spire which rises further into heaven, into the celestial lights that I cannot comprehend yet. I am alone, all is quiet, yet bursting like ripe fruit.
In the foyer there is no one, so I keep walking into a library. Loving books in life I am greedy to see the titles: on every binding there is the name “Sappho”. The Sapphonic books fill all the shelves. Heaven has preserved her books, lost on earth, long ago.
On earth, an interest in philosophy, I open a work, and the history of patriarchy comes tumbling, unwrapt, out. Apparently. They lied. About everything.
And I see that structure: the invisibility of a voice, which sang like an angel. The strangulation of the vine, of the stolen goddess. It is ages structures buried layers beneath shifting sands. A society so blatant its a whisper on every corner, being a pollution of lesbian voices, noise pollution, incessant, always on like the idiot box.
Her books she sang and I see her song, and feel it’s effect too. A sad song, lowing and long. About love, it’s what she stands for. Above triangulation of the spirit, which stops up the senses, and renders one unable to see what is before one. And heaps more sand.
She stood for love, which I too, have felt in my soul.
And there she is, singing in the centre, I see her now! Heyo Sappho! Her voice is the books, her spirit a goddess, her lyre of ultra violet strings.
She sings about love, a forgotten thing. About woman, the dream, the end, the beginning. About lesbianism.
If womans a dream, and loves a forgotten thing on earth, then in heaven, I’ll have my head on my womans lap, looking into those celestial realms, where dwells Nike, in climes unseen, triumphant.
Cal Kalve
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