Sara Henning’s “Orpheus after Eurydice (or After Finding Your First White Chest Hair),” from burntdistrict volume 2, issue 2, is our poem of the week. Sara is also the author of A Sweeter Water (Lavender Ink), as well as the chapbook, To Speak of Dahlias (Finishing Line Press, 2012). Her poetry, fiction, interviews and book reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in such journals as Verse, Willow Springs, and the Crab Orchard Review.
ORPHEUS AFTER EURYDICE (OR AFTER FINDING YOUR FIRST WHITE CHEST HAIR)
By Sara Henning
I tear it without asking, frail
as a sunfish’s bones, only one
in a nest of dark magnolia vines
suturing your chest to your body’s
age, swallow it so it can’t emaciate
other hairs with its version
of tensile strength, body becoming
not part of me, but its own
inevitable end. You’re lucky,
male black widows hunker between
the female’s fangs just to gain
entry to her body, male orb weavers
die immediately after mating,
so there’s nothing to lose
by being loved or eaten.
When hungry, even an exhausted
spider unweaves her web,
fashions the silk to the size
of the beetle she can’t liquefy
with venom to drink the sweet
meat, leave the exoskeleton,
her failure as huntress. So I
swallow the hair because I know
what it is for the body’s pieces,
once separated, to sing to each
other, know how once separated,
the body, given time, stops
yearning.