We lie under feathers Egyptian cotton I whisper tell me about the swords. He draws a finger across my throat and says jian cuts with both sides. I hear my name and my teeth bare. With every unhook his tongue cuts a nick in my skin, he hisses flyssa; nimcha; scimitar. The blood canals across my belly and the feathers turn scarlet. Iaido is a gold bell of a word ringing by my ear. He tells me in Japan it’s an art to glide your sword from its scabbard.
Jane Flett is a philosopher, cellist, and seamstress of most fetching stories. Her poetry features in Salt’s Best British Poetry 2012 and her fiction—which Tom Robbins describes as “among the most exciting things I've read since social networking crippled the Language Wheel”—was recently commissioned for BBC Radio 4. Find her at http://janeflett.com.