Eurydice in the Morning

She stopped running.
Her legs trembled
as her muscles locked shut,
a groan of metallic sinew
pulling tight.
There was nothing to do
but gaze out at the land
she wouldn’t reach,
the fields of flowers
bowing in the morning,
as her body calcified
there in the sun.
A pillar of doubt.
A tower of ifs.

Daydream

A husband made of air.
That’s what she wants.
As careless as the wind
that ruffles the toothy orchid
in the backyard.
She wants a husband who
will not rattle panes
at words or thoughts
that carry chains around their feet.
She wants one who will
spin sighs into a tablecloth
just wide enough for their
war-scarred table.
She wants a puff of nothing.
A man of clouds.