Whatever Happened to Symphony 

Susan Culver
 

Call me finished, nearly miraculous;

verity with a self stroke in the only color

I could reach, so bound in this

half life as I've been. Call me siren

with my lips of wine drench, the way

a voice can absorb its chalice, can slip out

with the song, red, red; can stain the canvas,

the dress, the whole of his once dreamt Utopia.  

Call me curious, almost wondrous;

liquidity in the slim step, one foot, two,

the slick escape, the grip on the frame. Call me

wanderlust with my eyes alive and seeking,

how I emerge as humanity itself emerges,

in search of my maker: Midas, Midas;

will wear away a new footpath, bear

the strange and lovely weight

of your unknown reasons, your needs,

will move a universe in his name.  

Call me Symphony, simply tragic;

timidity with a memory of his gentle hands

drawing me. Call me Symphony,

Symphony and give me gold in every season,

every whispering of life beneath

your little cathedral sky; give me life

in his unmoving hands, his unblinking eyes,

and a soft kiss for his statue lips,

a dream of all the things he never told me,

my Utopia... even his silence is golden.