(Eurydice still in Hell)
Now I wonder if he looked back
on purpose to get rid of me
and commit to living with grief,
a less demanding companion.
As he mourns me in solitude,
the songs that cascade from the lyre
make gods, humans, and animals
intoxicated with sorrow.
He wrenches water from granite
and wrings rain out of cloudless skies.
I’m collecting the beads that seep
through the soil and rise in the heat,
although each day I’m here it grows
more arid. If I heard singing,
I wouldn’t be tempted to look.
The future has forgotten me.