Kelly Fordon
AFTER SAPPHO
Speaking of desire, what shall I call
the drumming of my heart? Sweet,
racing violets. Dream dialogue
with blossoms. Artemis holding
a goblet filled with the finest sand.
The honored child, the winged lady,
the sweet-smelling grass, I’ve never
seen them. The road has loosened
my skin like a cloak, and all the gods
in my head lament this poverty
of song, trapped as they are
in their separate dungeons. When
I feed them, they sometimes say,
You shall know love, but not until
your tongue sheds its bitter robe.