Member-only story
Charon
a poem about the ferry man
You name your price
though it’s only a litany,
a game you play just to hear
the pitch of their voices stiffen,
like the burdens they bring you.
Sometimes the survivors try to go
with you, pressing hard, offering
themselves like stones.
Between trips you imagine
different schemes, practice
escape routes in your mind
until they become as routine
as the lapping of water
against the bank, plans
as distant as the cold
etching the lines
of your face.
It is always dark.
You’ve long since sounded
the river, the current pulling
at your arms until they ache
like the slow ring of iron,
long since known the sound
is always your own voice calling
in the darkness, calling
at any price.
__________
Copyright 1993 Marguerite Floyd all rights reserved
This poem first appeared in Fabbro, June 1993
