Did the steady flow of flaxen summer honey
from the thyrsus of Dionysus slow to a coveted
trickle? Did iridescent slivers of beeswax, once swallowed,
offer the slim possibility of celestial insight?
Did Arion develop an extraordinary gallop, hooves
stomping a rhythmic reminder to frozen soil
that spring would come again as he hummed
a tune no one could decipher? Did Plutus pivot
decisions on how to dispense gifts of wealth
due to his sister’s yearly disappearance—more
havoc than necessary? Did Philomelus pace anxiously,
the initial shock of fallen leaves, his lost
industriousness too cruel as his mighty oxen
and venerable plow took rest? Did Despoina,
the other daughter, despair in becoming the lady
of the house to a brood of brothers and a distressed
mother? Did they assure themselves the promise made
with Hades was a sacred pact, that the underworld
house of Persephone would always be transitory?
