Jean Rhys was a bedraggled feline. She’d slink through cobbled alleys, lap up Parisian rainwater. High sky glance the glittering harem of stars, and long. Cats are the masters of longing. Spiders are patient, but when it comes to longing, cats are unparallelled. Jean Rhys carried the swell and salty blessings of sea in her breasts and ovaries. She palpitated, regularly and religiously, the ocean as mirror, as window to the past. Cherish. If only cherish could find her longing, treasure it, then the two would harmoniously mate and spit out frothy sea babies, glistening baubles of agate and coral. If only… If only was the hymn that Jean spoke to sing herself to sleep, she undeserving of scorn and rape, would cover herself warmly beneath a bedspread of shadow, a most favored cocoon.
John Biscello 