Song of Eurydice. *

He is my song & I listen at the window
with my candles, moths & butterflies,
in wind & rain or any season to his song,
naked in my white gown, calling me down.

His eyes always gleam,
in a face paler than the moon,
he sings of fire & ice,
or more radiant than the sun
of days without ending,
or of mists, where memories
return as rhapsodies
& again to echoes
whispering my name.

He is my love & he calls me down
to where he stands veined
in marble glistening sheen,
& I touch the silver of his heart,
the jasmine azure of his throat
& his marble lips of song
poured into me as a cauldron.
He has crowned me & kissed my foot,
bathed in my blood, suckled my breast,
he has been my lover who gave me no rest
& now in my hands I hold his severed head
& listen to his song, calling me down.

*After Hilary Monroe. The Cypress on the Lawn.

After the Cave, the Comet