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The Ankh

O! eternal sun-kissed flower of ages dark,
Pressed in these pages, as petals in book:

Zephyros disturbs thee not, though disturbs he
Who stole thy love, who’st stolen thee.

You are Python, to which the bow flings the fiery arrow!
—Golden tips piercing through wheat—
You are slain, but come again. You are:

The sun feeds.

You suffer, throwing yourself against the heat,
Against the Western Wind: which blossoms bite—

Dragged to a brook, then saved by ravens.

I bury you, in cemetery.

I bury you, by talking.

And by my hand, your flower-buds.

Kevin Le ‘22