your lips are worn
and fading away
fatigued
and strained
by my over use

still

I
tickle your teeth
and sing along
our duet is out dated
(but I still love this song)
though your smile
has rusted
and my heart
is broken
and we both are out of tune

even in my memory
discord overwhelms the melody
and it always ends too soon

I keep your rusty smile
in my memory box
I swallowed the keys
but never turned the locks

they say I am crazy
to keep you
this way

but I just can't let you go

so they say
I must burn your smile
away

but God knows I never will

if I burned you away
I would still know your name
I would love you the same
and I would still see you in my dreams

darling every night
there is a lovely light
from familiar lips
a stolen kiss
one more kiss
in the morning gone like mist

I am sentimental
and I will always
be crazy
for you. . .

You used to tell her she had bird bones -
it was only a joke,
but you would hold her tightly
so she could not fly away.

Now you carry starlings in your pockets
to feel their little hearts
fluttering much like hers did
when you lay your head upon her chest,
heart beating the way yours did,
before she flew away with it
as you always knew she would.

Tonight you are haunted
by a swan with a broken neck.
It is a dream,
just a nightmare,
but you know that it is her...

She has returned to you
decked out in feathers,
choking on a heart,
and you're frightened as hell
at how god damn beautiful
she is in broken symmetry,

but you find relief in your fistfuls of feathers.

Europa,
most beautiful:
even in dreams you are fought for.

Asia says she is your mother,
the other land is a stranger
and she plies you with fame.
She says she will take your name.
It is over.
She has already won.

He has spied you.
Fate rides swiftly.
Can you hear the hoof beats?
Can you feel them shake the earth as they ride through morning?

Fronti nulla fides.

You garland the head of a lie in wild roses and narcissus.
You marvel and caress the coat of purest white mockery, then boldly mount it's back.

Europa,
this is no stray bull in your meadow,
nor is he gentle or tame.

Across the ocean he flies, bounding tirelessly over waves while you scream and hold white-knuckle tight to his golden horns.
Sea gods and merry Nereids frolic beside you as you pray for your life, but it is Zeus that has stolen you away.

Europa,
it is not your life he wants.

Cast your beauty into the sea;
let it slip away.
Sacrifice it to Aphrodite,
or fair Persephone,
but keep none for yourself.
Beautiful are the divine,
but blessed are the plain.

To the isle of Crete he bears you, a strange land to your eyes that are nearly blinded by that father of gods as he sheds his disguise and flings it into the sky.

Hidden away is a secret place where he takes you, and you scream unanswered, wordless pleas as you are consumed by lightning flashing at your limbs and protestations, searing skin and innocence.
He is so bright that you think that you will die.

Europa,
don't you miss the meadowlarks
and the times when there seemed no evil in the plucking of flowers?

He has left you with light in your belly and darkness for your days.

The bull swims across the heavens with the Hyades on his head like a garland of roses; those sad daughters of Atlas.
Swimming near are the Pleiades, their lovely sisters, still chased by Orion.
As a lesson to others it shines in the sky, and Zeus' bull mocks Europa nightly.

           Vamp for the worlds ending
  with gilt lashes sharpened for the killing.

   Traipse drunkenly in steel-toed slippers,
        inhale spring and exhale winter.

         Trace epigrams upon the man,
          draw epitaphs into the sand;

            all hail your scarlet fever.

i.
     Last week she had asked me, "Sister, can you spare me a seashell? This town it is loud, but my thoughts, they are louder. I need to drown them like so many sailors lost in a sudden storm."
     I told her that she needed to seek help instead of seashells; they did not hold the ocean and could not drown her thoughts.
     Then my frustration melted to see her so suddenly as I had not since we were children, when she would beg, her eyes wide with fear, to check beneath our bed before she could sleep. She was scared of the dark and the darkness never seemed to leave her.
     She looked so small as she walked away without the hope she came for and so broken when she paused by the door to say, "but I have tried everything else."


ii.

     I saw her yesterday,
     sleeping in the shallows
     with her feet in the clay
     and pebbles in her hands.
     She never made it to the ocean,
     but the river drowned her thoughts
     just like so many sailors lost in a sudden storm.


iii.

     Last night I dreamt of her, it was a dream destined to reoccur. I saw her smile, although it may have been a rippling on the water, for soon she started sinking, sinking, sinking beyond my reach. She looked so close, but my god she looked so small.

     Oh, sister Ophelia…


iv.

     Today I think of her; I think of how I failed her.
I have a conch shell in a shoebox somewhere in my closet marked with stickers, hearts, and "Family Beach Trip '81."
Encouraging her solution would have been no help at all.
     I truly thought that I was doing the right thing.

     No matter what I do I hear her voice pleading, "Sister, can you spare me a seashell? This town it is loud, but my thoughts, they are louder. I need to drown them like so many sailors lost in a sudden storm."
     It is only air and the resonance of sound waves crashing against the walls of the skeleton of a mollusk, but to believe that ocean waves reside in the palm of my hand might give me strength, too.
     I was wrong to deny her.
     
    She calls for me in plaintive tones that echo in my head and reverberate through my blood and bones. It bleeds my heart to hear her sound so small and so alone.
I long for a tide to carry me away, but all I have is a river and a pocket full of stones.
     I wish that I could drown my thoughts the way she did.


     Sister Ophelia, I keep seeing you, but every time it is only my reflection. You left me on the banks all alone.

Cassandra is raving again,
Daydreaming nightmares,
She will not take her medicine.

She's back in black
With a razorblade
Shredding the zodiac.

They shake their heads and say,
"Poor girl has not been the same
Since the day her Sun stormed away."

With frustrated hopes to stop her weeping
They fill her up with poppies
That make her madness ripe for reaping.

She tells them they are tempting Fate,
"This is how it always ends."
They did not truly listen, now it is too late.