MEETING VIRGINIA WOOLF BY THE ACHERON'S STREAM
Tashfia Ahmed
ILLUSTRATION: Emotional Unavailability, Venessa Kaiser © 2024
poetry, may 24
poetry, may 24
Mother told me not to go astray.
But here I am—
Drinking stale wine off the devil’s crotch
At some run-down tavern on the edge of Hell.
I’ve bartered my red cape for a taste of the forbidden apple—
traded the saccharin taste of innocence for the bitterness of my original sin
To prepare for my showdown with the Woolf:
She stands at the bank of the Acheron,
The hems of her sheer white gown soaked in the muddiness
Of the river of unhappiness.
She tells me I need to get on her raft,
That it is a metaphor for my queerness.
So I do. I take her hand and sprint on,
My bulk weighs down on the shoddy bamboo shafts.
But she holds onto my hand with a strong grip;
She holds onto my eyes with an unwavering gaze.
She steadies me before she crouches down, and
With her hands cupped, scoops up the water from the Acheron’s stream
And pours it down my throat.
It singes my tongue.
It sears my throat.
It leaves a trail of charred skin down my esophagus.
I wince, yet I endure
For it is my calling to drink Hell’s libation from the hands of Virginia Woolf;
To look at her,
To marvel at her hands, for the years they have spent
In spelling out my envy.
To marvel at her mouth, for it has engaged in many a highbrow tiff
With the likes of Eliot and Mansfield.
To marvel at her shrewd, deepset eyes, for the delicious, pink brain
She houses behind their pupils.
For her to say, “My, what lovely eyes you have,”
So I can say, “better to read you with.”
For her to say, “My, what lovely lips you have,”
So I can say, “better to kiss you with.”
For her to say, “My, what lovely hands you have,”
So I can say, “better to kill you with.”
So I can wrap my hands around her throat,
Strip her off those rebel woman vocal chords.
So I can poke my nails into her eyes,
Dig out their white, gooey flesh
To have a taste of the mush of her brains.
So I can choke her to death,
While she croaks,
“Who’s afraid of the big, bad Woolf?”
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MEETING VIRGINIA WOOLF BY THE ACHERON'S STREAM
Tashfia Ahmed
ILLUSTRATION: Emotional Unavailability, Venessa Kaiser © 2024
poetry, may 24
poetry, may 24
Mother told me not to go astray.
But here I am—
Drinking stale wine off the devil’s crotch
At some run-down tavern on the edge of Hell.
I’ve bartered my red cape for a taste of the forbidden apple—
traded the saccharin taste of innocence for the bitterness of my original sin
To prepare for my showdown with the Woolf:
She stands at the bank of the Acheron,
The hems of her sheer white gown soaked in the muddiness
Of the river of unhappiness.
She tells me I need to get on her raft,
That it is a metaphor for my queerness.
So I do. I take her hand and sprint on,
My bulk weighs down on the shoddy bamboo shafts.
But she holds onto my hand with a strong grip;
She holds onto my eyes with an unwavering gaze.
She steadies me before she crouches down, and
With her hands cupped, scoops up the water from the Acheron’s stream
And pours it down my throat.
It singes my tongue.
It sears my throat.
It leaves a trail of charred skin down my esophagus.
I wince, yet I endure
For it is my calling to drink Hell’s libation from the hands of Virginia Woolf;
To look at her,
To marvel at her hands, for the years they have spent
In spelling out my envy.
To marvel at her mouth, for it has engaged in many a highbrow tiff
With the likes of Eliot and Mansfield.
To marvel at her shrewd, deepset eyes, for the delicious, pink brain
She houses behind their pupils.
For her to say, “My, what lovely eyes you have,”
So I can say, “better to read you with.”
For her to say, “My, what lovely lips you have,”
So I can say, “better to kiss you with.”
For her to say, “My, what lovely hands you have,”
So I can say, “better to kill you with.”
So I can wrap my hands around her throat,
Strip her off those rebel woman vocal chords.
So I can poke my nails into her eyes,
Dig out their white, gooey flesh
To have a taste of the mush of her brains.
So I can choke her to death,
While she croaks,
“Who’s afraid of the big, bad Woolf?”
AUTHOR BIO
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ILLUSTRATOR BIO
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