I think this one is my favorite. AO asked me to write the intro to the book. Easy to do -- an honor and joy.
From the Archives of the Heart: Collected Poems
Psyche
Alice O. Howell
The LoversPsyche spends three warm nights with Erosthey lie together uncovered and entwinedand watch the fireflies out the open window -the first night is a tumultwhen she awakes, he is goneso she changes the sheetshas seconds on bacon and eggs.the second night is sweet, languorousfull of tendernessevery question she askshe stifles with another kissThe moon is reticent, discreeta thousand years ago or a thousand miles awaythe ocean turns over smiling in its sleepwhen Psyche awakes, he is gone againbut she finds a note propped up against the coffee pot:"I love you!"she makes the bed with troubled eyeswould he, if he really knew?the third night he is latebut hungry, it seems, for more and more of her -they knock the clock overtime scatters in little pieces on the floorwould he? Psyche asks herself.Eros sleeps, his breath tickling her earthe sweet spice of him engulfs herbut Psyche cannot sleepshe gets up, stumbling over thefragments of eternity which cut her feetshe curses softlyan owl warns in the distanceshe goes to the bathroom door and without thinkingturns on the lightEros wakeshe is far younger than she!a mere boy with sleep caught in his lashes!she stands in the doorwayfeasting her eyes on the beauty of himbut not Eros"You fool!" he hisses, "you fool! What did I tell you!"then he pulls on his pants, ties his shoes with emphasiswithout another wordhe lets himself out, slamming the door.Psyche sees him out the window one last timethe match flaring his faceas he angrily lights a cigaretteshe puts on her old pink chenille dressing gowngathers the broken clock pieces philosophicallyinto a black dustpanin her broken-down slippers, she goes to let out the cattakes in the paper and sees the grey dawnbut by the time the water has boiled for coffee for oneshe is already bent over the tableweepinga thousand years or a thousand miles awaythe ocean heaves again and sighsfor it is full of such tears.a. o.howell