Apollo’s Raven King, or Commentary on a Kiss
When you were young, you danced before the court.
Titania, her birth, you celebrate.
So pleasing to Apollo he exhorts:
“One half my kingdom for how you gyrate!”
The head of John is not what you desire.
The ravens, flash of red before your eyes.
You never cease to stoke undying fire,
both love and anger, what that hue belies.
You said you never let yourself be fed.
No fear of death, creation of your art.
Unflinching, you, by heaven’s graces lead.
Now at your end, exhaustion in your heart.
Intentional retreat, you isolate
into a lonely valley, by yourself.
Pursued and hated; too, ignored, betrayed.
Your fasting, now, by hunger, you o’erwhelmed.
From where you are, there lying on the ground,
just strength enough to turn your head to see
the ravens now approach with cawing sounds,
a gray-black cloud appears unnaturally.
The ravens, no one but those worthy souls,
their mercy, how they feed their newly-hatched.
The ravens’ council or their god controls,
Apollo’s gift, none other can this match.
You in extremis, water that you lack.
In beaks, by thimbles-full, each swallow, brings.
Until they’ve healed, your lips, their broken cracks,
then scraps of food, your body strengthening.
Near death myself, alone and in retreat,
I’ve fasted for enlightenment too long.
Now trapped; no strength, or water, food to eat.
Their cawing voices like a savior song!
Their king attends with water in his beak,
The lonely valley where I knew you were:
my lips just open wide enough to speak
coordinates. Unconscious . . . vision blurs.
T.H. Chalm 