ROBERTA SENECHAL de la ROCHE
AFTER DAPHNE RAN AWAY
On this blue hill things grow unbidden:
lupine, ash, the mountain laurel
a bowl of red wine to throw on the dirt,
though nothing appears to you
no voices out of thin air,
and you never got to do her.
Hands on the wheel, tight now,
like your lips when you sailed off
in a silver pickup, raising waves of red dust
turning roadside honeysuckle blush pink
until the next rain that erases
all your tracks and traces.
Or sleeveless, inside out, on a porch swing
somewhere flexing your song
ready to hit any bird that shows
on the ridgeline, sweating through
the sting of ink that will not flow,
a down-home Apollo with a quiver
full of broken arrows,
slack-string lyre, tongue tied,
Roberta Senechal de la Roche teaches at Washington and Lee University and lives in the woods near Free Union, Virginia. Her poems have appeared in Vallum, Front Porch Review, Colorado Review, Yemassee, Cold Mountain Review, and elsewhere. She is finishing a volume of poems called Going Fast.