Sep 30, 2008

Gray Sisters to Perseus

Written by Lori Lamothe

Read by Michael Robins

The twilight smells like moths.
Moths and libraries and children’s breath
preserved in formaldehyde.

It’s in our hair and our cloaks reek of it.
Everywhere the years have accumulated in layers
like the stale smoke of magic.

Nothing glows. Forget youthful ex-
foliation, alchemical regeneration.
Here you can scrub beauty all you want,

but when you’re finished the ash
fallen across the bridge of your nose
is still dull as rain.

Note that we don’t really look like birds.
People just say that because
our footprints resemble the shadow

of the lightning branch. In the blur of dim,
where dawn would be, we walk the beach.
The sand is gray. The water is gray.

Of course. You might think it’s monotonous.
Or, like the others, you might surmise
our shared eye makes us powerful.

Perhaps. Because what you take
for a quest to conquer evil looks to us
like the sea’s hammered metal.

Also, when we recall paintings of love,
we never fall headlong into crimson
but sit around all day on our driftwood

debating the intensity of angles.

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