Orpheus

Orpheus

And then there is me, dragging her 
away from the shores
of the Styx. Believing I will 
carry her from room to room
in our parody 
of domestic bliss—
a lifeless fetish I keep
feeding my breath into. 

But that's called love, isn't it?
The grip. My fingers curled
over the edge of the cliff—
the gravel digging bloody
pits into my hands
and still I hold. 

Even with the sun, 
the inhuman fury
of its whipping me,
and the vultures
like ink-winged angels coiling 
lazy paths above; drifting
drifting down 
in solemn regard
of the tender treasures 
of my flesh. 

But not landing. 
Not landing yet. 

And still I hold. 

Because it is never about the pain 
of the fall. It is always about 
the loss of the summit.