Psyche and Eros

Psyche and Eros

Love. The word sleeps like a stone 
in my mouth—sharp, soiled, impossible 
to swallow.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ I must be certain 
if I am to give faith. 

Night holds my angel mute 
and resolute. His translucent wings 
curled under him as I bend
to bring the candle closer
to his face, revealing that unbroken 
marble and dangerous beauty. 
 
O sisters. How wicked you are 
to convince me of the serpent—
that this quiver of arrows 
could ever harm. This unblemished lamb
in his fleece-colored nakedness. 

Leaning closer, just to touch
the golden thread of hair— 
to feel for certain that this is my love 
dreaming beside me—the wax falls, 
and certainty becomes my sorrow.