Photo by Matt Brown on Unsplash
That moment Orpheus looked back, He knew what he had lost: Lemon light drifting Through French blinds, Heat rising in an October cool, The feeling of knowing you are exactly Where you are meant to be. Stumbling, stuttering, Eurydice is before him now. Face on concrete, Neck like molten glass, Orpheus is shaking her, waking her, Telling her all the things That used to come so hard. ‘You’re easy to love’, he shouts, But Eurydice’s eyes are shut.
My favourite part of the holiday Used to be putting my shoes Into that blue plastic tray. Listening to the flap of the black curtains As yet another possession was slurped Into a misshapen mouth. I stood like a warrior, Bare feet, muddy ankles, Face glowing as I walked steadily Through a minefield of lasers. Being nine, I did not yet wonder What it meant for somebody To look straight inside you. To stand without material With the understanding that Something within you May not be liked. Out of view, each tray twisted and glided across a grey sea. Being nine, I did not grab anxiously. Rather, when the time came, I let them float into my hands Like long-lost friends.