16 December 2012

Eros and Psyche

by Jehanne Dubrow
after Antonio Canova’s sculpture (1787)

From a certain vantage point they
could be lovers—the man
with his arms encircling my
mother, and both of them gone
marble. He has woken her with
the sound of broken wings. Her
blanket is polished rock, cold
and weighted to the bed. From
this angle the knife is hidden,
although it’s there, the way
an arrow is always shooting through
this story, desire a dart that
finds the tender spot. Bodies
make a space for gods to
intervene. Tonight if there are
souls like butterflies, then they
have stilled. If beauty could be
bolted in a box, if a deity could
say, Don’t open this, then my
mother might stay asleep
forever, unbothered by the
monument of those hands.

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