101 160 157 154 154 157

Apollo patches us up, keeps us running. I take out his pieces, clean them, oil them, and put them back. I sing as I polish his jaw.

My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves
Are filled with my bright presence, and the air
Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare.

He tightens my lyre’s wires. It hurts for a few days, the way good things hurt. We try on each others’ faces, each others’ various parts, that we might test them. I try on Aphrodite’s breast, Hermes’ feet, and we laugh.

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About abi nighthill

Abi has a BA in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago.
This entry was posted in National Poetry Writing Month, Poetry and Nonfiction, Science Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

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