Apollo

He is of the sun, and so he is not by nature
Permitted to be dark, or blue, or luckless

Or mysterious like the woods where his twin
Springs from oak to pine, or like Pluto

Shadowed from all light, cursing
Fate of the drawn luck he’s pulled

He sits on the lowest-hanging bough
Of the playground tree, and swings

To-and-fro his legs, too pretty to dare
Be loved, and so he sinks his soul into

Such a grim domain, finding a snappy
Retort for the why-don’t-you-play-lets

Draw-straws-and-see-who-we-are question
(As if the lyre strings are a single necklace

of plastic beads that we can just thread
and be done with)

Without sun we can’t see lies (or lace or luster) and
Sometimes the world is prettier that way, so sometimes

I murmur my poetry aloud by dim evening lamps and
He listens at night, without a shadow by dim light

We cannot be all strong naked sun and poetic, because
Pluto’s cold damp mind somehow is so welcoming

I think I like it there, where I don’t need to see
The burning texts that highlight who I’m told I am:

Apollo