Spring 2015
Last Thoughts Before Drinking From The River Lethe
by Constance Brewer
All day long you think of the underworld—
the gloom, the depth, the stink of sulfur.
It's the dimness that bothers you, the lack
of a view of the stars. Instead of oceans of fish
there are rivers of souls, undulating in unison,
a great whale of movement that lulls one
into complacency. You think how it would be
trapped beneath the surface, slick with the vapors
of final exhalations, air rift with final words
caught unspoken. Of the hundreds of billions
of souls you concentrate on a mere handful,
those that glow with extra light, as if incredibly
close in the night sky. The ones like fireflies.
You know as soon as you step in the flowing river
of oblivion you’ll cease to care about the universe,
the sun, and the home you left behind. You promise
yourself you won't forget what it's like to become
a momentary star on some nameless soul's horizon.
The Linnet's Wings Poetry