Orpheus Returns to His Wife

There are no oracles, no future as incandescent
when she showers with emollients, perfumed
gels and a razor to shave rumors Orpheus has played 
with the Maenads. Talk about suicide, grief, 
how black nightingales lay eggs in his precious 
lyre means nothing compared to those times 
he made elbow room more visual than an impromptu 
gift slipping over hot flushed skin, then diving 
underneath a changeable smile, the cry of asking 
why he insisted living like this. He said the gape 
of her bridal veil exposed smooth undulations 
so sweet he had no choice but to bury his fingers 
until she became more beautiful than perfect 
white washed sand filling an empty bottle of gin.
2003 Alison Daniel

More Poetry

Dim the Lights,
back to contents