Calliope

I feel myself toeing the borders,
trespassing, slipping into other countries;
clandestine passages over ground rules & drawn
with a finger in sand, other lines.
When I think of where I've come from,
all those years of kind, preindeterminate definitions,
all my black dresses, & closets full
of years I keep under lock and key,
it comes as a surprise that underneath
      I was not surprised at all.
Just waiting. If everything is true,
then I feel grateful; a graceful uninvited,
 a clean-handed Calliope.
What would Ares think? Hard to explain,
as in all moments like this, a gray sunrise, a sad song,
that first slow wakeful blink:
      I am the lucky one. I will pour over you
like fingers searching old envelopes,
I will read you like love letters,
smoothing over each crease turned sepia
from a life's-time of folding,
of tried & tired patterns. I will appease
sore muscles and put length into your bones
like I've done for every other hero,
though so far, I'm not asking for anything
more than a handshake, a way to
bargain back a coat.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

Interesting little conceit; this is not the heroic poetry that is the province of Calliope, but something subtle, understated--dresses and love letters as opposed to epic battles and great deeds. It's very visual for a piece not built around big issues and great dramas. It's a fine concept, and the execution is very, very fine.

[Kristin Brecoe]

this is pretty. im not sure what to say of it right now. i'm going to share this with my friend. let's see if she leaves you a little note.

perhaps i'll bookmark this and come back later when i have more brain.