At Voula, dead dolls
beached with every tide,
dismembered like Orpheus
before myth died.
Only in the mountains
they remember how the women
searched with torches
for the demigod,
shrieking grief and mirth.
At Voula on New Year's Eve
the camp was drenched with light;
drowned dolls came drifting
ashore, blue-eyed;
I kept one, to remind me
of my life.
Night Tide
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103032500605
Свидетельство о публикации №103032500605
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