In my daily pilgrimage from Manhattan to Brooklyn, 6 train, F train, A train, two
          stops ahead, the smell of subways and sweaty musicians invading my
          fragility…
I saw Apollo with his guitar, Clinton-Washington station, collecting change in his
          case, shining in a crowd of hobos and dirty visions of rat-faced
          businessmen all damp armpits and name tags, and then him, playing his
          heart out, golden in a place of filth,
I saw Persephone arising from the subway after her travels to Queens and back
          again, a trip that holds the universe together, and puts petals on the
          flowers,
I saw Leda and her swan running, running, running, unable to even flap in the
          crowds and clouds of city smog,
Aphrodite in Tompkins Square Park, halter top, high heels, the perfect woman—
          fifty for the evening, seventy all night—licking her lips, flashing her hips,
          guffawing around cigarettes, teeth made of heroin,
Poseidon sitting near a fountain, tossing coins dejectedly, crying salt tears,
          writing watery words in the puddles, dreaming of the Sound, dreaming of
          catfish and shellfish and goldfish, dreaming of surfing and faraway
          mermaids who catch the sun in their hair and lounge in golden swimsuits
          against the great deep bed of the sea,
I saw Cupid in a drive-by shooting,
Phaeton the bus driver, speeding, from sun to sun to sun to sun, bound to crash,
I saw stadium lights rising like trees, skyscrapers, Titanic power plants, Zeus
          directing traffic his arms sunburnt his face raw, apartment buildings
          where everyone is Atreus, where everyone murders and waits for
          something beautiful to happen, dreams gone under, nothing left to lose,
I saw Artemis in Central Park, joint in hand, lost eyes, occasionally spouting
          protests like a broken faucet, save the animals, save the animals, save us,
          save us, and then she takes another hit,
Icarus in LaGuardia, taking off for San Fran, biting his nails and hoping his flight
          is not delayed—he’s scared of terrorists, scared of oxygen masks and the
          vast mechanical birds eating him alive, he’s scared of flying ever since his
          accident, and he wishes he had drowned,
and Daphne, green tree in the city of whiles and nevers, suffocating, never
          planted in real soil, only chips and cigarette butts, her leaves are turning
          brown and she wishes she’d succumbed, because now she can’t escape the
          city’s gravel—her roots too deep, she and her Olympians are doomed and dreaded to a world
of crosswalks, cancer, crowds with crusted eyes and cell phones, the barrel of
          Cupid’s gun, kamikaze cab drivers, subway maps, rappers, commercials
          coldness cracks in the sidewalk cops and college students, the city in all its
          heartlessness,
and so many charred children waiting for the light to turn green, dreaming too
          hard or not hard enough that what they want is meant to be, that what
          they are is not a tragic myth, hoping, hoping that they are not Icarus or any
          other, hoping, hoping, and disappointed every time.

Elizabeth Light