The Charon Cycle:
amiranda's grave
10:14 pm
rain misting the windows
of this bus growling home
(this boat rowing to shore)
somewhere else, thunder mutters
and lightning answers; tonight,
it's just the rain, drizzling
into an eternity-seeming valley
where Underhill begins. The grass
flattens under my feet, mud
creeps between my toes with tiny claws.
a drear night for this visit, Amy;
I unfocus until I can see your hair, leaf-bright,
against the black of the cave
that yawns suddenly into being,
and you raise a hand. I have dreamed
of what I might do if you smile
(and the boat rocks, scrapes, the rope
lands on the dock, catches)
but your eyes, as always, are somber.
I throw you two coins. You leap
and they are caught; a flash
of heels, and you are gone.
A tawny doe leaps into the brush, the chill
sound of horns blasting, and I stand
and let the hunters pass. The wind
of their passing stings me
and it's just me and the dripping night
and a single coin, shining,
in the imprint of a hoof.