“What's in the Flame of a Candle?,” “Immured” and “How the Song Turns into a Legend” 

What's in the Flame of a Candle? Close your eyes and stare inward, conjuring the voice of your first yoga teacher. Was it her soothing Danish accent that instilled peace in you? Or perhaps her reassurance that only outlining movements mattered, the way brushstrokes lead you without expectations? With eyes closed, draw a candle out of the darkness, see its flame get brighter with the rising sun, see it redden the background against the dark horizon delineated as in a Rothko painting, and watch the setting sun shed blood over ocean waves. Keep staring at the flame's harmless cool light wavering, stretching. Watch it as you'd watch the flicker of coals under caressing tongues of flames dancing inside the hearth, the way you did that night when alone with your cat, you survived the power outage in the midst of one of Michigan’s worst ice storms. Let the eyes of your body recall the mountain bonfires lit in honor of the Virgin Mary's Assumption, the tall votive candles, remember the Bunsen burner's blue flame that sterilized your grandmother’s needles and syringe. First published by Third Wednesday Magazine Collected in In the Folds of Time (Press 53 2026, forthcoming) Immured I live in an underground house, in the flank of one of the pyramids of Giza. I breathe heavily the enclosed air, so thick it rubs over me. I think of the doomed priests of Egypt who were buried alive. This house has a secret wing, I move in it like in a dry aquarium. Crystal and pink marble chandeliers cast a faded light over the damask Louis Seize chairs. I address the elegant seats as if I expect an answer. I am amazed at the impeccable condition of the room. Delicate tapestries and old oils cover its walls. Carrara pink marble tables tiptoe over pastel Persian rugs. This part of the house is never used. No one knows of its existence, not even the maid. I have a sleep-in maid--she has no face, like in Mexican muralist paintings; she spends her time sweeping the floor, an automaton. We work together incessantly. I see endless corridors, a maze of rooms waiting to be cleaned. There are no windows. No one knows the house and I exist. I live only for the house, a victim of the Pharaohs' eternal curse. First published by Linden Lane Magazine From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013) Hedy Habra How the Song Turns into a Legend We all have but one song, spend a lifetime looking for ways to say it, as one recites an unending poem, a chanson de geste, a canto, or an epic. What happens then if you whisper it only to yourself, burying it deeper every day? Wouldn’t it wilt as petals pressed between the pages of a book? And couldn’t a garden die of indifference? But take any couple, an encounter, turn it into a legend, make it last... Their story told and retold, ritualized by repetition, until their stature grows, their eyes brighten, until their voice is heard, their sin forgiven... Recount tales in tongues, in parables, uttered in public squares, whispered in corners in sotto voce, from mouth to mouth, hear a mother’s voice warn her children with a half-smile, witness puppets parody star-crossed lovers in street fairs, in jest, in awe, in ever-changing roles and settings. Watch words form lines, notes, scripts, scores written in scrolls, in parchment, in manuscripts folded in folio, in quarto, scribbled in notebooks, in recipe books, in brown paper, engraved in stone, in bronze, gold or ivory, transcribed, transformed, until only names are left untouched. When so many variations deafen the original song, then, and only then, the images retain their spell, become universal, art legitimizing what could never endure. First published by Linden Lane Magazine From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)