He’s Hera’s satyr. He is
a charmer. They tarry,
share a syrah,
their hair messy,
their hearts erratic.
He tires, mithers
She carries their syrah;
they sit. “Hear it?” she says.
Mayhem. Screams. Misery.
“Aye,” he says,
“Each year has its crises.”
Her tear strays. He smears it,
traces a shy heart.
“Marry me,” he says, a rite
his easy haste a stammer.
She rises; his heart hammers.
She shies. “Me? It’s rash.”
“It’s smart,” he says. “I rhyme.”
She stares, terra-met,
Stars shimmer and crash.
“Yes,” he hears her say. “A team.”
He’s a satyr, she’s a myth – a match.
Emma Tonkin is generally somewhere between Somerset and the gulf of Morbihan. A perpetrator of shameless acts of short fiction published in various anthologies and webzines, she/they confesses to occasional poetry. @emmatonkin on Twitter.