The truth is that he would have made it
and almost did. The world concerned
with thoughts of days and nights turned
his journey into a waste, laid the blame
on a man’s doubt, but then they couldn’t know

how distant sunlight scorched
my eyes – how, in the cool shelter
of that tunnel between my home then
and my home now, I hung back
until he had to know that gods do not

lie. The truth was his name slipping
past my teeth in the same voice he last heard
at our wedding, when I danced
from his songs to my union
with the fate that opened my soul

to the music of silence. The truth is
a plea for home, wherever you call it –
my restful dark.

Note: Another Eurydice poem – maybe one day I’ll write an Orpheus piece for a change.

look-back

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