Apollo's Son.

By Tanmayee Paruchuri

A healer he was 

A peculiar kind 

Gently braided what was left 

Of the hair which I pulled apart   

And under it all 

He saw the mold, the rotting skin 

Yet he held me close 

In the wind it blew

The flames that adorned his head 

Had strings of gold 

By the sun he was blessed 

Day and night 

He sparred with death 

“I can bring her back”“You must let her rest” 

Hums and coos, 

There was a tune between the two 

When the nightingale sang them to sleep

Frost-filled dreams began to flee, 

He chased her around

through the snow, 

They twirled at night by ember stows 

Platonic, was it, their chase for a rosy peck?

His golden cage couldn’t bed her neck, 

Violent ways fell to a prudent red 

Carnelians coddled the ombré sky 

A new zeal of life had caught his sight.  

Yet that night came, 

Like a lily’s bloom 

The wind that howled,  

I’d mistake it for a tune 

The springs of heaven, 

the rills of the sky, 

They broke inside

his baby blue eyes… 

In the face of the moon, 

He couldn’t face me this time.

And then I felt it, his blade 

Wedged between my ribs 

As he shook, with every twist 

And his righteous hand 

Didn’t wish to plunge, 

“I had no choice; I am his son.”

He stopped the heart 

That he had revived 

A healer he was, 

A peculiar kind. 

“...”

But he was damned, 

And her blood had to seep—

Slip into the ravines

Never to poison but, To soothe and ease.  

Had he known 

She’s the life he’ll breathe, 

He would’ve left her stranded— 

Only to break his knees.   

In his hands,  

The gun—  

Would’ve spun.   

He’d burn his tongue.  

He would’ve died Apollo's son.

By Tanmayee Paruchuri