“Zeus planted a killing doom within us both, / so even for generations still unborn / we will live in song” (Helen, The Iliad, 6.423-426).
The world is gold with afternoon.
You unfold from the leaf bed, possum-eyed
and soft. Your mouth is full of my name.
Time unspools around us like thread.
It is a tangled thing, with no beginning nor
end. You uncurl cupped hands.
Here.
You rest your name in my lap. It glitters
there, shapeless and silent.
Long did I hunt for this fallen piece of moon –
I searched the sky for its lunar language,
I picked through cities of mushrooms,
I listened for the howl of it in every gust.
In my palms, it feels delphic.
I want to promise to love its every
leaping fire and bat-squeak and particle of dread
every atom rounded with war –
but such cavalry of words seems too big.
Instead, I squirrel away each syllable.
You watch my mouth. You’re waiting for poetry.
Okay.
