Bright Boat
by Kate Adams
He lifts the lyre lovingly, begins
to sing. The names of gods and heroes take
his tongue, and every move his fingers make
across the tightened strings entices him
to weave the web a little thicker. Thin
at first, his voice becomes a river, lake,
dark sea... And suddenly, God, I’m awake,
the pillow wet with weeping, wanting him.
A thin moon casts soft shadows on the floor.
He’s dead three thousand years and still I dream
his hands, his voice, dear God, the simple scene
around the fire, songs of men at war,
women at the loom. The lyre gleams
behind my eyes, bright boat, receding shore.
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Kate Adams is the Drama Department secretary at Stanford.
E-mail: ishy@stanford.edu |