For the Sonorous

I.

I want to be alluring and divine,

              a coquettish nymph careening swollen lovers through vain frost like Dionysian

grapes, wine-red luxuries juxtaposed with vanilla foreground. snarled lips laden with crimson,

              roaring with laughter at a succulent & shameless ritual. “darling, beauty is sovereignty.”

moon-eyed boys are scoured, devoured whole by masked sirens, quartz teeth gnashing.

 

They are the potent huntresses with Artemis’s

ravening wolves for mothers, burgeoning mouths sprung open at  a trespasser’s sateen nod,

sleeping swaddled, waking electric and maddening with pupils of emblematic charcoal-black,

              a curious nature so viscose you can bottle it up, and irises of Castleton green.

no - the ever-present emerald green, they flash begrudgingly like jealous Hera’s.

              crooked jewels tainted by an oscillating kind of envy, they curse the heavens.

blood of nobles ruffed in the flaxen leaves, heartbeats seismic and howls dissolute.

 

Stitching their own weathered wounds

with the thread of Fates, as if they control life’s pallor with the snip of spangled thread,

              harnessing mortals and gods alike. the murmur of bronze presumptions is muffled as

              they swallow their tears, containing a clinched catharsis

immune to Poseidon’s own cobalt fist.

 

They are the girls who awaken the heavens

              with each resonating click-click of high-heeled shoes, reverberating like Hades’s

              nightmarish chariot when he robbed Persephone of her youth,

betrothing the spring maiden and disrupting mortal seasons. moving into a distilled

              metaphor unenclosed by russet-gold pages, of the leathery chasm Zeus’s master bolt

leaves on verdant, Grecian terrain. not discriminating  against the

              country’s own sinewy mountains.

 

              the product is an animated Promethean conflagration ravaging prominent cloud features.

              a frothy patch of sky is spared. myopia stabs viciously at grisly consequence,

              fluent mahogany spills over the earth. curious Pandora

              taps at a peculiar box, “open it, open” and childlike wonder is obliterated as

cyanide lightning permeates the amethyst sky.

 

II.

I spin around the kitchen

              my thoughts adrift in sacred sleepiness

              sipping my Minute Maid orange juice, eggs cooked sunny side up.

a sweeter liquid Helios, savory like nectar & ambrosia

today I am served the food and drink of the gods.

 

The faint rhythm of Apollo’s lyre

exists in the melodious realism

              of my mother’s music from the 60’s.

“Here Comes the Sun” plays humbly,

              each playful note on the guitar a

facsimile of the deity’s steely & supple fingers.

 

I thank the gods

for these tangible moments,

humble & honeyed

memories I

can touch.