Moira Egan

I hope you'll pardon the informality of this letter, postmarked Olympia (Greece, not Washington), its task not simple: crossing lines you've crossed, time, mortality, to find you, who spent a lifetime crossing lines out, twisting, polishing them to shine cool and lustrous as the statue I fell in love with yesterday. I'm sure you saw him too, that perfect Hermes by Praxitelis, full lips, hips contrapposto. I wished to draw him down, latter-day Pygmalion, and embrace him. Or barring Eros (and the guards) I'd trace his face, the supple muscle of the marble. I had a student who resembled him— yes, Angelos—arrogant and beautiful. I never touched him though he touches me in dreams. Eros dangles his perfection in our faces like one-armed Hermes with his promise of the grapes. I was certain I'd dream of him last night. Instead I dreamed another in the growing chain of others with whom it ended not quite right. But the thirst was perfect, if its price pain and shattered crystal, spilling wine, all part and parcel of our imperfect lives. Then Art startles out of heartache, marble or page. You learned this long ago. Now I too see the wildest things require the strongest cages, the panther's double bars, or the seeds, bloodysweet and bitter, in the pomegranate's rind. Love held tight in a sonnet.

Things happen when you drink too much mescal. One night, with not enough food in my belly, he kept on buying.   I’m a girl who’ll fall damn near in love with gratitude and, well, he was hot and generous and so the least that I could do was let him kiss me, hard and soft and any way you want it, beast and beauty, lime and salt—sweet Bacchus’ pards— and when his friend showed up I felt so warm and generous I let him kiss me too. His buddy asked me if it was the worm inside that makes me do the things I do. I wasn’t sure which worm he meant, the one I ate?   The one that eats at me alone?