Cythaera and the Song

Marjorie Allen Seiffert

The narrow door
Is open to the starlight. Let us go,
Beloved, toward the night.
We venture into darkness-when we speak
It is like wind blowing through withered grass,
While from our hearts no word
Disturbs the silence where we pass:
And though our fingers sparkle when they touch,
Like fireflies, our fingers still are young;
Our spirits have forgotten much-
Night is a song in a forgotten tongue.
We try to fling
Our lives into the night-our bodies sway,
We gesture bravely with our hands;
Our spirits cling
To the safe nothingness of yesterday.
And so at last, unshattered as before,
Laughing, breathless, desperate, we return
To the narrow door.