Oenone

Gone. No words of parting or rejection.
Not even the sight of his back turned on her.
At first it seems like walking from the sea,
so heavy her limbs, her strength draining into earth.
The sun presses into her flesh, its warmth a pain.
Now she lies in a darkened room, destroying him,
his brightness. Her eyes are blank, her mouth tight.
Rumour coughs and mentions there is a war somewhere —
a mere wisp, a feather floating in the air.
Those eyes no longer alter with the light.
But when Paris is brought for healing — brought to her,
bearer of Apollo's gift — she sees him clearly:
that face darkening, blood welling from every limb.
She turns her back, walks to the empty room.
His death is a wisp. She opens the shutters,
studies how a feather may blot out the sun.
One day she ventures forth. The war is over.
She has own. Brightly, coldly, shines the sun.