Vox (3/27/21)

After Maureen N. McLane / After Sappho

Some say horsemen,

some say warriors;

some say scarlet wrung

from another man’s throat,

some his voice. I say

you: soft sparkle my ears

follow everywhere. It’s how

every night I feel

like I’ve swallowed ash:

we live and breathe

star-like, beautiful

until burnt. Desired until dead.

At night, I sew threads of you

into my own aria,

offer it up to the clouds;

are you listening when I say

not horsemen, not

warriors, not blood, but you

singing and how suddenly,

everything matters less?

How silence was never default,

blankness never our

beginning? We started

fully absent of fear and love

and even still we have yet

to choose them.

Some say the end

is most beautiful, some

the aftertaste.

But I say you: unfinished yet

so whole I wish you’d

hold me, your arms

incomplete around my body,

motionless: space being

what ties us together,

imperfection our sustenance.

We don’t let go because

we have room

to resolve.

We love because there exists

an end: somewhere

after this leading-tone,

something perfect.