Alan May
The Horses of Achilles
My long, gray Cadillac sits, not idling,
not waiting to charge down the dirty roads
to make some deal, some charge,
some grand entrance. My friend
is down. Buried. He cools his heels
in Hell. We used to raise hell, the dust
we left behind enough
to make another earth. How soon
we turn to dust. I see my own death
before me, a dark and shining horse
forever carrying me toward sleep.
In my dreams the car’s radio speaks.
The car croons, I'll die here. The car sings, tenderly,
“He said I’ll love you ‘til I die.”
Damned car. Dead fireflies on the windshield
would glow. His hand turned
the wheel. Now the Cadillac sits,
gray, brooding, silent as blood. I die.
I die, consumed by fireflies.
Not stars. While grander schemes kill,
fall, and fail to rust.
Page(s) 73
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