Eurydice and the TRC

Elisa Galgut

I knew they'd send him
To woo me back with his music,
His sweet songs, his ardour.
He always could inspire love.

I hear
Melodies that linger like the scent of perfume

And I know he's near
To return me, to take me home.

The bastard.

What does he know, grandson of memory,
Poet of pastures, of this still place?
He thinks we are like the living,
Only dislocated, condemned
To silence, mouths open fishlike without speaking.

The breathless ones.

Here we have nothing to do but forget.
I am drained of memories -
They leak from every wound,
Ooze from any break in skin or bone.
I have bled myself dry of him,
Sweated all caresses, spat out
Every kiss.

I am dismembered; mourning
Is beyond me.

His music will sew me up like a marionette;
I shall caper like a pantomime of my living self
To ease some pain that's nothing,
Anymore, to do with me.
Let the living find their own forgiveness.




LitNet: 12 September 2005

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