~
DEATH SCENE WITH APOLLO
One day an earthquake will split this meadow
in two and that’s the way I’ll die.
What a groundbreaking thought.
Or maybe I’ll slough off my wetsuit
and swim out to sea, waiting
for the water to take me.
Maybe I’ll roll down the meadow and hit my head
wreathed with clovers, my dress stained
with grass. I’ll see him
staring down at me: marble-white,
naked, a lyre in hand. He’ll have kind eyes,
and we’ll head to the nearest coffee shop,
and he’ll vow that writing isn’t a waste of time.
But the problem with time, I’ll say,
is there’s never enough of it, not enough
time to see the moon fling its light over the lake.
To try to find a way to turn an early death
into music. As we walk outside, we’ll lament
the loves we’ve lost. Some street-musician
will strum a guitar. I’ll tell him what I’ve learned:
love’s a dried-up ravine—
parched rocks, nothing left to drink.
And he’ll stand naked before me
because he’s a god and gods are always naked.
~
Despy Boutris has work published or forthcoming in Ploughshares, AGNI, Copper Nickel, The Cincinnati Review, Colorado Review, American Poetry Review, The Gettysburg Review, Crazyhorse, and elsewhere. Currently, she lives in California and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The West Review.