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I sat on the rocks and thought of the stories I knew of nymphs who wept until they turned into stones and crying birds, into dumb beasts and slender trees, thoughts barked up for eternity.
Such fights were more precious than gold in our halls.
This is the grief that makes our kind choose to be stones and trees rather than flesh.
He had taken a mortal to wife, and had a babe in swaddling and another in the belly.
I fear I have robbed them not only of their youth but their age as well.”
Death’s Brother is the name that poets give to sleep.
The perfect solitude that would never be loneliness again.
I made a list of all the things I would do for him. Scald off my skin. Tear out my eyes. Walk my feet to bones, if only he would be happy and well.
No mouth could carry all that persuasion. There must be shortcuts, and so he found them.
It was their favorite bitter joke: those who fight against prophecy only draw it more tightly around their throats.
silence prompted him better than words.
He said that the medicines he sold were only for show. Most hurts heal by themselves, he said, if you give them enough time.
Athena snapped each word like a dove’s neck.
