When Helios' son is felled by a lightning bolt, the seven sisters of Phaethon grieve for months. Out of their tears comes amber; they themselves are turned into poplar trees. Deserts are scorched into being, and mountains shaped as if by earth-movers. The landscapes of grief are ragged with untrimmed grass and sharp with boulders; they're rimmed with the stars' metallic shine. Pigeons roosting in the eaves have feathered breasts the shade of sudden bruises, the shape of hearts if you could hold them whole in your hands. Yesterday I walked through a winding hallway lit with others' unseen breaths.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
