Daphne and Apollo (by Ross Cohen)

I could never compete with you Lightfoot, skipping across the moss and stone. I crashed through tangled woods, Ripping roots from the earth, Snapping branches, clearing a path by force. You were a speck in my eye, Just visible behind the vines; A mirage on an empty plain. I could never see you directly, I could never sleep where you had lain. I had grown accustomed to the dip And dive of your back cutting Through the clearing where, Panting and parched, we stopped For a fatal moment. You turned. The war Between flame and stream, Between you and me, Swelled to crisis: Your skin cracks and grays Like cooling embers; the ground surrenders To toe-roots; thighs stiffen and petrify; Bark works its way up To the bole-knot in your stomach. Shoulders and arms explode Into clouds of flickering green and gold. Soft shrapnel litters the ground. Sitting beneath the sole tree In the forest’s barren place, I sift through the leaves For the memory of your face.