Hyacinth
Petals insect the sky,
buzzing the smell of rain,
beating their wings
with which they instrument
a flood of pollen over me.
Always, I hear the wind:
a hand rubbing my neck
biting with gentle teeth.
Breath, breath, breath,
it is so light to breathe, so soft upon
my tongue, my lungs,
but air, it seems, has formed
in its molecules
some lead that drags the sky,
down with my organs
to heaven’s opposite: the earth.
The frothing soil specks consume
my name, my face, my features.
And though the earth devours me,
I find the cause of my distress
within the sky above.
It is the sun and western wind
who push and pull
at my appendages.
The disk weighs down on me
setting my back aflame
while drafts pull me up
into a gentle hurricane.
And so, one part of me is stuck
within the clay; another part
is caught inside the clouds,
pulled and pinched by air.
I am two parts severed,
with legs and arms
bound in the leaves,
forced to salute the sun
till time itself has passed,
and even then, still I’ll salute.
Gods, take me off this earth
or lay me in its bowels!
I don’t care where I am placed,
I only want to be placed:
to know my realm,
not be compound
some vernal in-between.
If I was born a man,
I want to die a man,
and let it end at that.
But since I live, I ask,
is it the sun who has
betrayed my nature,
or is Zephyrus who I must blame
for my afflictions?
Should I accuse both my suitors for this
sick transfiguration?
If I should choose a single god,
who deserves my poison most,
I will suppose it’s you, the sun,
who has not given me
the choice to live or die.
All life should linearly lead to death,
but my birth within and out of earth,
repeats.
This once dead Hyacinth,
is left a floral prisoner
strapped to the wheel
of seasons, spring and time.
It will forever turn,
and I with it, in constant cycle,
without a chance to be at peace,
or sun my skin by you.
Without a chance to reflect your light,
Without a chance to return your love,
Without, even, a chance to breathe.
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