AfterTheNonSequitur

Demeter drives us through Greece, Along a coastline scattered with ruin old and new, My skin smells of salt and the sun and the wine-dark sea. Still one of the kore, not yet Persephone, I haven't eaten of those seeds, Though I tell him: let me, let me, let me But Hades lives near Helsinki, A colder coastline, icy and distant, And when did Hades have to be convinced of Persephone? Did she chase after him, to put her heart in his hand? I am sinking. I am close, always, but so far, so far. Athens and Helsinki, Winter and spring. I go away with my hands filled with centuries, Empty of you.

I see flashes of who we were, are, could have been As though reflected in the windows of passing metro trains. You cannot tell me you love me in your own language, a language too serious for people like us, but I see it in your every movement. I am not so reticent. I take my heart from my sleeve and pin it to yours. Chasms pass between us, and doubts circle like wolves, and we build our bridges and we light our fires, but I would consume the moon if it meant you would howl only for me. Why are we here? My love?

This is a moonless world, and empty, And it shakes just as my body shakes At mention of the endless dark ahead. Whatever I confess will echo soundlessly Across the blank, sinking void, breath gone As quick as mist, as quick as fog, And whatever you say I will not hear. My feat will tread upon ground unbroken, Upon ash, upon snow, upon bone And all that was before me falls away-- But on the horizon, Light.

Leonardo Da Vinci Studied hands, studied skulls, Harriet Hosmer sculpted the clasp of Elizabeth and Robert Browning. Carvaggio painted them Coming out of the darkness, Adam reaching out to receive life from his creator. Antonio Canova, shaping Psyche to revival by Cupid; Isis, holding Nefertari’s hand As she is granted eternity. Delicate, desperate, reaching, grasping, begging. Hands, in art. My hand, in his.

Lord, there is something in my chest Whenever I think about the city these days. I am just another ghost, Winding my way through the uneven lanes Of a city already overflowing with them. I have carved out my niche in eternity, Made a home for myself in the afterlife, And the city does not remark upon my passing. It won’t be long before the city is the ghost, Winding its way through unfamiliar lanes And dark corners of memory, As difficult to retain as smoke. This time I am the one expected to carry on. I do not know how to hold on to you.

Soles pounding a staccato heartbeat into the cobbled streets, Stars swallowed up by walls and fog. The city moans, howls, roars, And I am headed home. I hold the language like a handful of pebbles in my mouth, I cut my teeth on every consonant, Stumble over every syllable; They scrape and skitter, scattering from my tongue. My veins rise from my legs like embroidery— No, like risen trenches, Too many nights spent standing For things I believe in, But don’t know how to voice. An enlarged and torturous vein, such as the one I continue on in, such as the one that runs from my feet to my heart and keeps my head turning, not knowi

When I think of Prague, I think of the streets before I think of the spires. Uniformly uneven and covered in all manner of mysterious stains-- best not to think where most of them came from. When I think of life in Prague, I think of the birds before I think of the people. The pigeons and magpies are abundant, but birdsong is always present from dozens of unseen feathery throats. When I think of the people of Prague, I think of my colleague before I think of the crowds. Reserve, or course, it's natural to keep it to yourself-- but not in revolution, and not in love. When I think of eating in Prague, I think of the language before I think o