DEATH SCENE WITH APOLLO

One day an earthquake will split this meadow
in two and that’s the way I’ll die.

What a groundbreaking thought.

Or maybe I’ll slough off my wetsuit
and swim out to sea, waiting

for the water to take me.

Maybe I’ll roll down the meadow and hit my head 
wreathed with clovers, my dress stained 

with grass. I’ll see him 

staring down at me: marble-white,
naked, a lyre in hand. He’ll have kind eyes,

and we’ll head to the nearest coffee shop,

and he’ll vow that writing isn’t a waste of time.
But the problem with time, I’ll say, 

is there’s never enough of it, not enough 

time to see the moon fling its light over the lake. 
To try to find a way to turn an early death 

into music. As we walk outside, we’ll lament 

the loves we’ve lost. Some street-musician
will strum a guitar. I’ll tell him what I’ve learned: 

love’s a dried-up ravine— 

parched rocks, nothing left to drink. 
And he’ll stand naked before me

because he’s a god and gods are always naked.

Despy Boutris's writing has been published or is forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Ploughshares, Crazyhorse, AGNI, American Poetry Review, The Gettysburg Review, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she lives in California and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The West Review.