Hades Welcomes His Bride

Come now, child, adjust your eyes, for sight
Is here a lesser sense. Here you must learn
Directions through your fingertips and feet
And map them in your mind. I think some shapes
Will gradually appear. The pale things twisting
Overhead are mostly roots, although some worms
Arrive here clinging to their dead. Turn here.
Ah. And in this hall will sit our thrones,
And here you shall be queen, my dear, the queen
Of all men ever to be born. No smile?
Well, some solemnity befits a queen.
These thrones I have commissioned to be made
Are unlike any you imagined; they glow
Of deep-black diamonds and lead, subtler
And in better taste than gold, as will suit
Your timid beauty and pale throat. Come now,
Down these winding stairs, the air more still
And dry and easier to breathe. Here is a room
For your diversions. Here I've set a loom
And silk unraveled from the finest shrouds
And dyed the richest, rarest shades of black.
Such pictures you shall weave! Such tapestries!
For you I chose those three thin shadows there,
And they shall be your friends and loyal maids,
And do not fear from them such gossiping
As servants usually are wont. They have
Not mouth nor eyes and cannot thus speak ill
Of you. Come, come. This is the greatest room;
I had it specially made after great thought
So you would feel at home. I had the ceiling
Painted to recall some evening sky--
But without the garish stars and lurid moon.
What? That stark shape crouching in the corner?
Sweet, that is to be our bed. Our bed.
Ah! Your hand is trembling! I fear
There is, as yet, too much pulse in it.

first appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal

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Elegy for the Lost Umbrella

To lose an umbrella is nothing. But to lose
An umbrella you've held on to year after year
Through various chances of rain, that you've gone back for
Into restaurants and shops, with your sopping shoes,
And leaning against the wall like a confident lover,
There it was-- "You'd be back." Beautiful!
Sage green, sprinkled with flowers, the cloth-covered handle...
But left on a west-bound train--everything's over
Like the end of a movie. You are suddenly light
As if it were that hook that was holding you steady
Through shifting sands of years, always ready
With its shadow and kindly cane. Or it might
Be you feel dizzy because of the sudden flare
Of Possible Umbrellas opening all around--
The ones you may yet have, flimsy or sound,
But fickle, tugging you off into thin air.

first appeared in The Formalist

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The Poet's Sister

The poet's sister lives the poet's life:
She keeps all her belongings in her car,
Then leaves the car behind. It is enough:
A whim's the wind that blows the compass-star.

The poet's sister drives with any friend
Pushing west, or any westering love,
Sun-sets her gaze over the pulling horizon,
Takes any job that pays less than enough

To keep her there; she busses dirty dishes,
Rises to waitressing, likes living rough,
Resides in tents and bathes among the fishes.
There is no roof that's clear or high enough.

The poet's sister buys just one-way tickets,
Leaves no address to forward winter stuff.
She's seen the blast-off of Space Shuttle rockets;
She knows that gravity is not enough

To hold us down, that it is no excuse.
The poet's sister has come close to death,
Had blood combed from her hair, been dreadful news
At an hour when shrieking phones are dread enough,

Been stitched and splinted. If the poet's bones
Don't twinge, foretelling snow, and if her love
Dawns steady from the east, and if she owns
Health-benefits, a cat, too much to leave

Or cut her losses with a pocket knife
That chains her to her keys and carefulness:
The poet's sister lives, which is enough
Of loose rope-bridges and the sky's abyss.

first appeared in the Chattahoochee Review