Beautiful Cassandra, I’m going to ask you not to look at the myth— no matter how they tell it, it doesn’t end well for you. Mute prophecy a moment. The history of birdsong is also yours. Remember, it was a heron, not a god, that made sense of chaos. Let its cadence sway you now …
Mourning I went out into the mud and rain to watch stalled horses, nervous and full of heat, neigh and kick at thunder until the storm passed, and the ghost was given.
Sometimes I pretend there was moonlight, ample. That your body was lit bright. That my eyes closed with no other choice. On other nights, I remember that it was dark. That there were no streetlights. That the stars, smothered by the clouds, could not see us, and all we had was touch.
Skin lurid and out of sequence, seldom do these intervals lift the dawn close enough that I don’t need to squint, but this morning I am wide-eyed and there is a quality of light, gypsy and unfolding. I wait for it to find your body, mute.
The shells I collected last summer kept their promise; the wind has waited all these months. I listen. Smile and hue return.
Tonight, I crave chocolate cake. when yesterday I had forgotten there was sugar and cocoa and bakers who know what to do.
Watch the fireflies extinguish two days after you trapped them. Catalog ephemera and translate before it wilts.