For Orpheus Who Made Stones Weep


Would that I could take you with me in my pockets,
girl carved from Parian stone;
would that you could be Eurydice,
and I an Orpheus of sterner stuff composed,
or drawn, at least, by less ardent a desire.
I would be happier, now, if we hadn't met,
if I were going home empty-handed,
bereft not just of you, but of the feeling
of your fingers wrapped about mine like unkempt string,
your breath soft against my cheek as you whispered,
your uncreatable voice,
and worse yet, missing the fact of you,
lacking the knowledge that you exist,
that it is possible for someone-anybody-
to be you. Such woe would be joy in place of this one.
Now here is a sadness to keep in the heel of my shoe
to be woken by every like sorrow
and stirred by each new melancholy
as I am stirred now;
here is a moment to return to
when I need to feel a certain way,
a place to consider what has been and will be lost to me,
an intersection of all time.
I know not how my marble girl calls to me, or whether;
she can't speak and I must not look back.
Our song is silenced forever.

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