Eurydice & Orpheus

Long her darkness there, his turning head
              a seed, his longing the imagined foliage not
come, his uncertainty the yellow
              leaves. "The here is her," he said, over and over

without turning round. Wait he kept
              thinking, and he waited in that waiting
and knew every time we speak we stun
              the word, so he hummed, but the humming

grew, each bee'd syllable toward
              a name, and as he turned
almost surprised to read its sign—Eurydice
              Eurydice—now the radio of his voice

dismantling sound. How terrible and free
              he stood, watching, no longer
waiting, then she picked her beauty up
              like a shovel and was gone.

Copyright © 2009 Mark Iwin All rights reserved
from Tall If
Western Michigan University
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission