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Xallan Aug 8
The sun sets
later, over a sandy horizon, and
my cat
sleeps at the foot of my bed.

The robins are
smaller,
and more fearful,
their songs less sweet.
The mosquitoes are
smaller,
and less aggressive,
with less bite.

The sea's high-flung mist
obscures
the stars.
My summertime blanket.

It takes
more effort
to get up in the morning:
I'm not
chasing
anything
anymore.

The sky collapses
when I'm not looking at it.
My mind collapses
when I'm looking at it,
but
I'm Lot's wife,
I'm Orpheus, I
can't help but look back.

But I can be washed out onto the beach,
into the
soft feathers
of the waves, the
soft feathers
of the fog.

As the sun sinks into the sea,
draining color with it, it
leaves behind
an aura:
orange and bright,
a shadow
of a black hole.

I'm
alone
in the sand,
I'm just another
odd grain.

Maybe the sky
has to
collapse:
my heart isn't
large enough to contain
all it feels,
my head isn't
big enough to contain
all it sees,
my skin isn't
vast enough to contain
all it senses.

Maybe I can
learn
how to chase a sun.
dorian green May 2021
i don't believe in soulmates,
but i think we came close.
skin to skin, i read your palm,
but how was i supposed to know?

what do you do when your red string
gets caught in the door?
i never could untangle it,
and i didn't know how to be loved by you anymore.

i ask constellations how you're doing
and dodge your calls.
in the summer, you'll trace my palms
and we'll defy stars as trivial.

there's always something about good things i want to ruin.
there's no version where orpheus doesn't turn around.
it's not so much precognizance but
digging up the same old burial ground.

it's not so much what you read
in between freckles and lines, but the sense
of connection, a familiarity of skin on skin
and a practiced willingness to drop the pretense.
belbere Apr 2021
what a wicked thing i was.
i turned back, anyway.

the devil i dealt with 
wasn’t a devil at all,
it called itself her fate,
took my place by her side
and told her it was time to go, 
everyone was waiting 
down below,

the devil she dealt with 
wasn’t a devil at all, 
i called myself her lover, 
and she loved me in kind, 
and when she’d gone
i couldn’t understand
why she’d leave me behind,

if nothing else
i had to see her
one last time,

the devil we dealt with 
wasn’t a devil at all,
it called itself inevitable
yet decided to let us go,
said it would see us again
one day, together 
down below,

i didn’t think to ask her
what she wanted,
if the hands of fate
were warmer than my own. 
if i had kept on looking forward, 
maybe i would know.

what a wicked thing i was. 
i turned back, anyway. 

                                                       ­                                       "was she upset?"

i couldn’t say. 
she smiled the whole time,
and when she disappeared
it was all she left behind.
if orpheus and eurydice was a lesbian tragedy
Laokos Oct 2020
i am Orpheus in the clouds
playing clown for the masses.

i'm half of the shaft of light
breaking mosaically into
millions of pieces across the kitchen floor.

i'm a smoky chandelier swaying with
the bravado of a censure on high-holy-day.

i'm the royal velvet lining your blood.

i am a poem, without reason, read to you
by a stranger.

i am 200 tons of cracked granite one thousand
feet above you splitting off from the face of
the mountain.

but more so than any of that,

i'm a peculiar kind
of nothing

typing words onto
screens before
i die.
Chris Saitta May 2020
Because stones do not pray, even in their centuries’ quiet,
Because the vines are long, only for the sake of length,
Not like the drab Orpheus-song that always up-ruins.
Because vestal Autumn is a bride of noon-time rain,
A faithful stream with her white mist of suffibulum,
Beside the path whose footprints are half-notes from the grave.
Suffibulum is the white veil of the vestal ******.
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