On Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne
Is there a hand more beautiful than his Around her creamy hip? So soft, the moon, Its fingers resting on the sea. Detuned The lyre, somewhere, the bow unstrung. Is this A god of oracles, whose seashell eyes Are fixed upon her flesh and sure, dull pearls, The foliation of her foaming curls Escaping him? His confidence belies The nacreous occlusion of his sight, While wood spills up to meet his palm, too fast For contest, racing like a broken wave Along her bare, despairing thighs. So white The silence of her open mouth, her last An underwater cry, so lovely graved. Libby Maxey Libby Maxey is a senior editor with the online journal Literary Mama. She reviews poetry for The Mom Egg Review and Solstice, and her own poems have appeared in The Fourth River, Crannóg, Kestrel, and elsewhere. Her nonliterary activities include singing classical repertoire and mothering two sons. www.libbymaxey.com
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The Ekphrastic Review
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April 2021
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