The Goddess Died At Herculaneum
Poem By John Sarvay
Your face splits with torment like Janus
and creates a mood evocative
of some concoction of grape and spent ember,
a taste encased with what was immediate:
a simple cry, or
the shape of weathered stone on your cheek.
A shadow crosses your brow at this pulse
of passing remembrance.
Perhaps you remain
captivated by the fading fire,
or the stories of the stars.
Surripita es a deis —
You have been kidnapped by the Gods.
Something sweeps through you:
the ache of your clenched jaw,
the slow throb of fading tannins. An echo.
Dawn does nothing to suppress what lingers,
yet just before at the crumbled temple
the sun rose to you
strewn naked on worn marble.
Despite the firmament
constructed by your memories,
this wasn't the first time you cried.