A farmer was gifted Alexa.
He puzzled and he frowned.
“So, you can tell me the weather hey?”
“Yes” replied Alexa, so he took the thing around.
.
He placed it on the fence.
“It´s going to rain tomorrow” Alexa beeped.
“Of course it is” the farmer laughed
“The cows are moving to under the trees!”
.
The night fell soon enough,
“It will be frosty in the morning” Alexa piped.
“Well it´s not rocket science…
the moon is clear and shining bright!”
.
Alexa chimed upon waking
“It´s going to pour today, in a few hours”.
The farmer looked out his window
“Aye the petals are closed on those flowers”
.
The next day Alexa shouted
“It´s going to be dry and fine!”
The farmer had placed it further away.
Laughing “Says the open cones on this pine!”
.
Alexa screamed in desperation
“There will be freak snow soon!”

unable,
uncertain,
unknown,
unwanted,
unloved,
unravelled,
unchained,
under cover of darkness,
under unending law,
unblemished, unbound, undefeated,
unaltered, unceasing,
undead

If a chap in a chivalric or mythic tale announces that his honour has been damaged in some way, you know there’s going to be a duel or other violence. His honour may have been damaged because he didn’t get the right cut of meat at the feast, or someone suggested his wife is not the prettiest woman in the history of the world. The speed of his horse may have been questioned, or some more obscure personal pride thing that no sensible person could have seen coming. And then, so that honour can be satisfied, pain must be inflicted, maybe even death. It’s a way of thinking about honour that has never made much sense to me.

For women, honour is usually framed in such stories as being all about not having sex, or only having sex with the man you are married to. The woman who has sex…

I step silently through the streets, colours beneath my feet, as i crouch to the floor. A drum beckons me close and i strap its frame to my body. There are voices on the air, excitement and rainbows interlaced in the fabrics of those around. The echoing of bells, there sound swells and ricochets off bricks. Shakers and surdo´s, glitter and gold. Timba´s and conga´s on the old and the young. A whistle blows sharp across the throng. The sounds of the sun, from the ground to the sky. An elephant draped in silk, crafted by man, rolls down the street, followed by children swift of foot. Dancers twirling and rejoice in every voice heard. A parade of life, sounds and colour, a community together for a moment. Food shared on long tables, talk and friendship. The heart of Brazil in the passion of France.

Laura Berry