Psyche in Somerville

I am angry with X, with Y, with Z, for not being you. Enthusiasms jump at me, wagging and barking. Go away. Go home. I am angry with my eyes for not seeing you, they smart and ache and see the snow, an insistent brilliance. If I were Psyche how could I not bring the lamp to our bedside? I would have known in advance all the travails my gazing would bring, more than Psyche ever imagined, and even so, how could I not have raised the amber flame to see the human person I knew was to be revealed. She did not even know! She dreaded a beast and discovered a god. But I know, and hunger to witness again the form of mortal love itself. I am angry with everything that is filling the space of your absence, breathing your air. Psyche, how blessed you were in the dark, knowing him in your flesh: I was wrong! If I were Psyche I would live on in darkness, and endure the foolish voices, barking of aeolian dogs, the desert glitter of days full of boring treasures, walking on precious stones till my feet hurt, to hold you each night and be held close in your warmth in a pitchblack cave of a room and not have to wait for Mercury, dressed in the sad gray coat of a mailman and no wings on his feet, to bring me your words.