In the subtropics it must be spring;
a flock of cedar waxwings, whispering,
has tethered the unswayed cabbage palm
to the last day's heat.
They devour the fruit no local bird wants.
Unswerving, they swerve through clotheslines.
Let their whispery cries be mine.
Their whisper of wings is yours.
But what good is sight?
In the dark, I thought, lay the struggle
of mind over body that kept Aquinas awake.
Whoever you were, you slept on.
By candlelight nothing is not beautiful.
The relief of your finely sculpted head;
The drop of wax that fell on your bare shoulder.
Why didn't you want me to see you?
The drop of red on each wing almost glows
this hour neither dark nor light.
Waxwings, forgive me. Fly away north.
What was the dark like?
I remember the mind fogged with something not dream.
what of the traitorous, languorous body?
It lies down. It begs.
Greger, Deborah. "Psyche and Eros in Florida." The Poetry Anthology, 1912-2002. Ed. Joseph Parisi & Stephen Young. Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 2002, p. 408.
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