Pulse 74
As on a saint’s day
crowds gather in the square,
so grief brims over in the heart.
It collects
as lightning charges the seams of clouds
and bursts out.
Her absence is his crucifixion.
He is burned through
by the noiseless tears
edging slowly down her pallid cheeks.
She is his destiny.
So where is his Astarte?
She is the saint
who conceives in pain
and bears him grace.
The air tightens around her.
She shouts out, “Come to me.”
And lo, from out of the crowds
comes her Adonis.
He breaks the myth.
He slays the wild boar.