Satyr's Wife
                               

I wanted to be the satyr's wild wife.

I used to stalk him through the forest
amazed by his hoofbeats of blue thunder,
the silver tail flashing like a lightning bolt.
That forehead crowned with musky horns.

He had the strange, sleety gaze
of whirlwinds in darkness.

I followed him to watch the way
he flicked a reed pipe to his lips
and blew music that would flush
the crazed boar from hiding.

Somewhere white eagles rush down
like searchlights through the pines—
that is how my dream of the satyr
came to me. I would suddenly see myself
suckling a horned infant
under red willow trees by a river.
And I would feel the satyr's eyes
on me like a knife.

Now my life is that dream.
The satyr pipes his brutal notes
in the blood-haze of these willows
while his moody infant dozes at my breast.
His music surrounds me with
madness, catastrophe, and smoke.

I want to be a bubble of air
rising in the dead river.