Erica Abbott
King Hades Makes Orpheus a Magician This Time
(inspired by Hadestown)
Proclaims he’ll write you a poem when the power is out
and I wonder what’s so wrong about that?
Poetry is the song of the gods; each word
a source of kindling when the timbre
of speech combusts. This hungry artist
is not starved: his voice is heaven-
sent. The mighty king of the underworld
and manipulator of the strings ought to hear this.
He is rich in romanticism, trying so hard
to immortalize those he loves in his words—
I used to believe what they say about never dying
if you love a person such as this. Orpheus
But then a deal is made. A sorrow of lyrebirds
mimics the sound of our leaving
and my imagination becomes an escape artist—chains
hope to the fact that there must be more than this:
penniless. You see, the willows still weep
their songs of defeat, each branch a throbbing vein
hanging from its arterial root. What does the wind know
of war— of failed tricks and truces? Hunger is a weapon
and his songs no longer feed my survival. I did
not ask him to free me, never signaled distress. My mouth
hangs open wide ready to receive the shining apple and, again,
I am halved at my core. Doesn’t he see? He never looked
at our love as anything that needed saving—
the world above ground needed far too much rescuing.
Look, I am a wilting flower still needing to be fed;
yes, a fading flame seeking shelter from the cold, too—
and, yes, in this poem, I am Eurydice
and all I am asking is for him to not disappear
me.
(credit for referenced lyric in first stanza: “Hey, Little Songbird” from the musical Hadestown)
Proclaims he’ll write you a poem when the power is out
and I wonder what’s so wrong about that?
Poetry is the song of the gods; each word
a source of kindling when the timbre
of speech combusts. This hungry artist
is not starved: his voice is heaven-
sent. The mighty king of the underworld
and manipulator of the strings ought to hear this.
He is rich in romanticism, trying so hard
to immortalize those he loves in his words—
I used to believe what they say about never dying
if you love a person such as this. Orpheus
But then a deal is made. A sorrow of lyrebirds
mimics the sound of our leaving
and my imagination becomes an escape artist—chains
hope to the fact that there must be more than this:
penniless. You see, the willows still weep
their songs of defeat, each branch a throbbing vein
hanging from its arterial root. What does the wind know
of war— of failed tricks and truces? Hunger is a weapon
and his songs no longer feed my survival. I did
not ask him to free me, never signaled distress. My mouth
hangs open wide ready to receive the shining apple and, again,
I am halved at my core. Doesn’t he see? He never looked
at our love as anything that needed saving—
the world above ground needed far too much rescuing.
Look, I am a wilting flower still needing to be fed;
yes, a fading flame seeking shelter from the cold, too—
and, yes, in this poem, I am Eurydice
and all I am asking is for him to not disappear
me.
(credit for referenced lyric in first stanza: “Hey, Little Songbird” from the musical Hadestown)
Biography
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Erica Abbott (she/her) is a Philadelphia-based poet and writer whose work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Midway Journal, Serotonin, FERAL, Anti-Heroin Chic, and other journals. She is the author of Self-Portrait as a Sinking Ship (Toho, 2020), her debut poetry chapbook. She volunteers for Button Poetry and Mad Poets Society. Follow her on Instagram @poetry_erica and on Twitter @erica_abbott. Website: ericaabbott.wordpress.com
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