He took a left hook on the ear and grabbed the rope of holy
beads around her waist, ripping them apart and kicking her feet out from
under her. As she fell, the Giant fell with her, driving his knee into where
her private parts would be if nuns had such things. And I guess they do,
because she let out a yelp, and clapped her palms against his large, doughy
ears. It stunned him, but he kept pushing his body against hers.
Most of us were convinced that she had already vanquished the
Giant and reduced him to a helpless twitching heap even though he was
still on top of her. But Sammy couldn’t stand it any more. He started a left
uppercut from his ankles and snapped the Giant’s head back, rolling him
off of Sister Margaret and onto his back in the sun. We all cheered.
Sister Margaret looked a little the worse for wear as she pulled
her ironed pleats from under the Giant and regained her feet. She dusted
herself off, then started to say something to Sammy. I figured she was
going to tell him she had it covered and didn’t need his help, but she rearranged
what was left of her broken rosaries, then looked up again. Her
lips were tight for a moment then they relaxed into that lopsided grin. All
she said was, “I owe you one.”
It was different between them after that. Sometimes she had to ask
him to stay after school to clean the blackboards or empty the wastepaper
baskets. And sometimes there was a look that passed between them, a
smile of the eyes, an acknowledgement of their new equality. But Sammy
won the spelling bee that year, and even though he was no longer delirious
about Sister M, if you tried to get him on your side about some of her
bitchy behaviour, he’d bristle and warn you off with those black eyes.
Day: 11/12/2025
Constantine Cavafy – Poems
The Tomb of Scriber Lycias
On the right, very close to the entrance,
of the Beirut Library,
we buried the wise Lycias, the scriber.
The surroundings fit quite well.
We buried him close to things that he remembers
perhaps even there—his comments, texts, writings,
scholia, a lot of commentaries on Greek idioms.
That way his grave will be seen and honored
by us when we pass on our way to the books.
Opera Bufa
Sixteenth Canto
I gather my few belongings and
picking my plain wisdom I embark
on the trip to the never land where
moss disguises sin and permafrost
melts every short agony as though
a rerun fable laments for its
lost moral in agora maze
breech of geranium’s
last defense counts its hours before
the opera bufa sparkling its absurdity
on the crest of horizon
like diamond strands meditating
poplars guard dead dreams
defiled by the smog of an orgiastic
city when the only piece of blue
is buried under a martyr’s gravestone
that begins to choke and wheeze
vibrating the peace of well-groomed
grounds so much serenity
through the park I can’t but think
of moving here at some
time the marble shone
by the last rain, craning his head up
rubs his eyes disbelieving
so remotely a beloved place
must suffer the burden of skyward
ziggurats that hold men and their fears
women and their anguish
children with their forgotten games
who rise and ask ‘what now?’
and hopping finch answers: I can do better
Hellenic Canadian Literature 