Summering in the Underworld

Someone is summering in the underworld 

where the fountains and forests are forever frozen

and the mountains are empty. It’s an unkind mercy 

that these things retain their form. Maybe it was once

beautiful here before sorrow became a sin. But there is 

goodness in fog, in forgetting the clothes we wore, the things

we said, what we saw. Memory cleanses itself, casting out

devils and angels.

I was born, and the foot of fate kicked me down the road.

I remember the sheep and cows peering at me kindly 

through the fence. I remember the blue chairs under the cypresses. 

I wish I had known me then. I would’ve held me and administered

the holy eye drops, so I could see what was coming. I would’ve

taken myself to a monastery and begged to be tied to a tree until

impulse disappeared and only prayer remained. 

Ancient bees and flowers mummified in amber, alive in the days 

of dinosaurs and still I don’t believe time will leave me behind. 

Why were we made to move among miracles with cloudy vision? 

Why were we made so flimsily? I once liked questions like these, 

but now they’re like trying to drink water from a glass encased in glass.