Eurydice to Orpheus

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Blacker blues.

Submitted: February 26, 2008

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Submitted: February 26, 2008

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You sing about
loss: Only I
lament.

Try blues with
this black throat,
on feet that

have no soles
to wound the
moodless shade.

If songs were
suitors, yours
would have

lured Penelope
away from
her loom.

Cerebus yowled
to no moon and
even Hades shed

a saltless tear.
But how could I be
much impressed,

the relic shade
of bright love?
You harrowed

every heart
here but one:
still I obeyed,


trudging behind
Hermes’ almost
hurtfully pale

wand. How I
grieved as
I followed you

to the forest’s
rim; and when you
turned to look

on me as I
knew you would
(always so eager,

too greedy),  I
sighed at last,
fading back across

the Lethe like
night poured
back into water.

And you, lover,
man, poet
so rapt inside

your half of
hear: You just
turned away

as I knew you
would, eager
to tell the world

your arch tale.
But know that
each new song


scars me deeper
in your throat’s
gold. I pall

every beauty
you extol,
with the harrows

of my fading
face. When
the women

sigh to your
song, my barb
echoes back.

I walk in vestal
emptiness,
a shore where no

ocean crashes
on no lovers’
foaming amens:

While you have
made heart a
fame. But which

fate is truest
on our bed’s
darkest strings?


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