If You Still Have a Voice by Hope Rudebusch
Tell me, Sybil—
when you look at your hands,
withered to bone,
bone clutching sand,
sand counting the years—
was his attention worth it?
Beauty is seldom safe.
Had we hidden ours, you and I—
dulled gleaming hair,
disguised plump ripeness,
muddied fair complexions—
perhaps then
we would have lived
our very different lives
and passed unnoticed.
Or perhaps you can never deceive a god.
His power shone—
did it draw you
like Icarus
to the sun?
Looking down from his feathered height,
Icarus saw—far below—
golden grain
and rivers crossing the fields
like veins.
He left it all behind—
who could say no to the pull of the sun?
And who could refuse Apollo?
Yet in the end
you did.
You could have felt the sun against your skin,
run your hands through golden grain,
traced the ichor in his veins,
and looked into his blue—
sky-blue—eyes.
You promised yes—
then you said no.
Did you forget
his gift, half-given?
If I stand at the mouth of your cave,
not seeking your Underworld
—I’ve already found my own—
not seeking prophecy
—I knew what I was choosing
when I said yes—
would you tell me,
Sybil—
did you make the right choice?