What Tantalus Wants
I. The Rock II. The Piano
Pomegranate blossoms whirl from black branches
to the brackish pool you’re standing in.
I quiver in your peripheral vision
waiting patiently as if you own me.
I can tell that you ache for my heavy thought
obliterating awareness and
When your pale fingers press through that
negative space between my own
you hope that perhaps I’ll knock you down
fast enough to reach those impalpable goals.
my high sigh reawakens your haphazard past.
Perplexed, you wander off to procrastinate
You assume that my gravity and brevity will
throw you into the thick of this dark matter.
and bury it all in the back of your mind.
I will not protest. I won’t make a sound at all.
Yet the sight of that fruit consistently coaxes your
mouth to sting with memories of its violet juice.
I’ll fade to the corner of the room where you
can’t be bothered to click the desk lamp cold.
We’ll stay just out of reach since satiation
is as abstract to you as death is to me.
But I can’t help thinking, if I swung above
some rope, my bearing might lend you weight.
Mx Glass lives in the East Bay of California. Xe has recently been published in THEM and The Journal for Compressed Creative Arts. Mx has xyr BA from San Francisco State University, and is currently using it to study ghosts.