Eurydice In The Dark

Into the darkness
of summer, this fluid
drinkable sea, that swells
like the night stars, like mother's stars
the night we were born. Into
the ashwork, into the farms
that breed the terrible hyacinths
of the night, veined gigantics,
lost in their flowering nebula, where we
once dwelled. On and on without end.
Into the forest of the night. Go on
where the trees breathe and speak only
of static, that they may hover and flesh
in the air, the empty air that molests
and thickens in their shocked mouths
the honeyed words of death, the cradle call.
We have been tricked. We have been lured out
of our bodies, our haven of flesh. O Fate,
O short-termed husband. We beg
your regret, stay its course, stay
your mourning, the night
swells with apathy. It will do
no good to come after us. We
who once dwelled in the light, return
to that place where stones emerge
and ghosts drag their bodies, haunting
themselves with the heavy curse
of memory. Where the river runs
on and on, salted with tears,
unsustainable, barren, filled, brimming
with dark water, blankets of offering coin
rattling into trash at the bottom of the boat.
Do not come. Persephone greets us
in her heavy winter coat. Her husband,
inexorable Death, walks lonely
through the isolated halls, the gardens
filled with empty jewels and bone-hard love.
He could not love her as once he loved her. Even here, ash falling
among the warped riches of his destitute kingdom, filling
the moon-drowned atrium like diseased snow, we can hear
the distance, the clamorous joy, the gold bells, the furious life
of paradise. O, golden city, even arrayed among green hills and
holy rings of laughter, how small you seem in the light of winter.
How tiny and petite. How much like a toy surrounded by
the fire-purged ruin of a childhood home. Walking there, barefoot,
the thistles worried against our soles, we pound on walls
overflowing with florals. We are refused at the door. The sky is nothing
but an empty room. In the season of our youth, where we died,
what little work we had done, building towards Elysium, began
to fall apart, undone by a viper, a bite, a bit of
poison rounding out our heart. Our season, our branches
filling out with flower, now tainted with the night sky. Never miss
the last day of summer. Never miss
the last moment of sun. As autumn approaches, hooves
pounding the dust road of time, churning the frigid air
with fire and wilting leaves. Clock's ablaze. No
escape. We dwell, continually dwell,
in the kingdom of the night. We, Persephone,
in our heavy winter coats, twin queens
drinking the cracked wine in our hearts
here, in the land of the dead. We wait.
We wait. We think we hear a voice.
A breeze rattling the night air, a bird
against the night sky, the first tulip
of spring, blazing. Here,
in the land of the dead.
A song.
And for a moment we dare.
But it's gone. Like smoke. In air.
A meaningless dance.
You cannot possibly be here
husband, our second little heart. O,
Persephone. Our lady
among the asphodel. Her smile
is filled with pity. Her dress
is flowing in the wind
like a beheaded flower. Her cast
glance seems to say: Never miss
the last day of summer. Never miss
the last day of summer! There will
be others.  You cannot dwell
in one season alone.
When he comes
do not ask to see his face, she says.
When he turns to see you again
one last time
remember this life
spent wandering in the shade.
Now. Go. Into the dark. Into
the light. Into the dark! Into
the light!