Softly, Gently, Softly by Sophie Hoss

The second girl sweeps into arabesque—a sleep-dancing marionette.

“Good, good,” says Apolline. “Good.”  

 Copper-haired faces tilt towards her like sunflowers. There is no music here. Only Apolline’s sharp-tongued instruction and carefully-meted praise. A meadow that rolls into tufted trees. A sky sifting gray and pink. 

 The third girl yawns her arms upward. The first bounces onto pointe. 

“Higher,” barks Apolline. “One two three, one two three…”

 Some time ago, Apolline crouched in the wet clay and molded these children, these daughters. She anointed them with slippers and flower-woven skirts. The first thing she taught them was to arch the toes, to turn out the foot. 

 They were pliable, obedient. Loose-limbed and eager to spin after the sound of Apolline’s voice. Their clay is drying now. Their features solidifying. Soon, they will wake. 

 The fourth girl is the trickster. She is the one whose eyelids flutter, straining against their own webbed-shut skin. She is the one who snags her searching hands on the bushes. Is she hoping to find a doorway? Or does she expect someone to lower a hand from above, haul her up and away?

 No matter. The girl will learn. She must. As long as they dance, the meadow will bloom and the rains will come and the clay will be ripe when it comes time for the girls to mold their own. Apolline looks at her own hands, caking in white, cracked splinters. She is the last one of her sisters now. Ash melting to dust. Grave ceaselessly becoming womb.   

Sophie Hoss is currently pursuing a BFA in Creative Writing from Stony Brook University. Her work has appeared in BOMB Magazine, The Southampton Review, High Shelf Press, and elsewhere. Her Instagram is @Sophiehosss, and her Twitter is @SophieisWriting

21 January 2022