Indian Summer

Liar. You live for the moments

in my bed? What about the hours

with Tiresias, chatting along

the banks of the Styxx?

The all night raves

with Orpheus and Eurydice?

I see the way

Achilles and the other heels follow

your hips your lips your eyes

with their own. Why do you run

to Daphne,

tunneling your way

through the dirt

to obnoxious Apollo

and the filthy mortals

lusting for your petals

to color their pale lives?

Where is your patience?

I wait through

the wretched summers,

Your scent fading

before the magnolias bloom,

My days and nights

Without your laughter

Without your voice

Without your stolen kisses

Your flight

Always my last sight.

I have work to do,

Just like you, only

Instead of flowers,

I tend souls.

When are souls out of season?

The moments I have

Are all I have;

I die inside

every time you

frivolously fling

one aside, like they’re nothing.

Like they cost nothing.

Why won’t you wait?

Leave Helios, Hermes, Zeus

and your mother out of it. When

have you ever done

anything other

than follow your foolish heart,

no matter how treacherous the path

or well-worn and crowded

with other travelers?

I gave you my entire

pomegranate,

but you accepted

six seeds, six

seeds swallowed

in six months.

Not thirsty enough

for thirty? Did they burn

going down?

Or did they burst

into sweetness, melting

on your silver tongue?

My bed is empty

while you dance in the

summer moonlight

on riverbanks,

wearing their rings on your toes

instead of your fingers,

Hiding them from your mother,

Not me. You think

I don’t see you

trampling the white petals

in the arms of your

summer substitutes,

Keeping the sweetest honey

all for yourself.