Issue 154, Spring 2000
What would the world be without
poetry, he asked, and I listened,
his thin Thracian fingers plucking
lyre chords all day and night,
incessant pining that in turn upset
our men. We warned him this was
wrong, that in Ismarus, when love goes
to shit, it's over. He wouldn't listen.
He'd been through too much for this,
the guilt that frets forgetfulness.
I laughed, knowing the torments
of a backward glance, the half-empty
bed and crackling hearth, of extolling
love among the shades. My girlfriends
agreed. What worthless artist rouses
grief in everything? You get no grain
without a season's change. I told him
to ditch the lilt and reap a family.
But slow dances don't recede, he sang,
and so, we slew his serenade, then
clanged our hearts on tinny tambourines.