We locked eye beams and were stricken
with the madness of the gods, so we talked
about starting a family. It was memorable,
as memory often is, and somewhere in the haze
that lingers between here and there, now and then,
a corner was turned and part of me became part of her
and we became adjoining countries seen from space,
no borders scribed in the ground to tell us apart.
She stood lightly on the land, as if the world
were made to be a grassy road before her feet,
but she was a rose, rooted, multifoliate,
with a stem that flows down into the shadows
of its own petals and leaves, where everything vanishes
into the blackness, as her roots disappeared
into a blackness deep as Death who only visits,
never stays for drinks and snacks, whose disappearing act
is a cruel prank played at everyone's expense,
including my own. But I trusted her
and her warm reply, "Yes, three kids."
Three years we were together, yet still alone.
But hope is born when all is forlorn,
and its inspiration took her to the crest
of Melpomene Hill to raise her skirts
to the wind. And that was when the dove
sank its talons into her sides, she said,
and pinned her to the rocky ground, she said,
and used her there, and left her there, fragile
as a glass earring fallen to a cobbled road,
glittering in the cold dawn's dew, shivering in fear
of a final footfall. But before it fell,
she gave my world a boy.