The Remarriage of Hera

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.