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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Four Issue Two |
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At Last Apollo Becomes Marsyas He has cinched the leather belt around his ankles. He dangles, upside down, gravity's new torque popping through his joints. He swings from his branch. The sky wobbles. Vinegary yellow warblers bubble among dogwood flowers, unhurt, like words about pain, the knife a curt silver tongue flashing back at the polished day. He opens the skin at his right ankle and a red grief sings past. The afternoon stretches long as the world steps near, each thing panting to be said. Then the left ankle, and his scream writes the cleansing sun into the sky. on the altar stone. |
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