antiquité rêvée

the face of horace, open and scared. strong thighs of mars supporting the fainted weight of sensual venus, sword in hand, eyes on the horizon. abandoned psyche, her husband, the god of love, will never return for her. she is pink-lipped despair in a pale blue sky, her naive curls a testament to the waste of her, the blue of her eyes gleaming with twinned misery.

oh, yes, the soft grass of the forest where he led her was green, and the day not threatening, and the fear heightening. in a hand there is a promise, and the ring of his lips, the young god who cannot escape himself. no hair on his face, no hair between his legs. the dangers of young love, psyche should have known. and the desert, now.



the sun tilts low over the horizon and winks over the perfectly groomed shrubs that open onto the tuileries. the eiffel tower is brown and pink across the river. the ferris wheel glints in the foreground of la defense, the buildings grey and misty for their distance. the grass is trimmed low and people lounge with green bottles of wine and blue or gold cans of beer. small birds dart impossibly quickly from bush to bush. they flutter above a woman with the end of a baguette extended to their greedy beaks, their curious black eyes.

icarus points at the hellish orb and marvels open mouthed at its beauty. daedalus warns insufficiently, he continues to attach feathers to the young back: now, he says, fly!

walking in the sun down the wide boulevards by the seine that close in on themselves as i approach the net of the marais. well dressed and jaded, the richly clad young and middle aged vie uselessly for everyone else's stares. the tops of buildings clutter and fold over one another, windows peeking out from the brick and plaster, from behind wrought iron. the ginko on campus has budded out anew, the one whose leaves i mourned all winter. i'm just another hopeless suitor to vacated persephone, languishing on earth until until her return.