. . . when I spoke, the rooms replied with words
That seemed to bear the accent-mark of joy.
Enchanted hands appeared with olives, wine,
And plates of dusky fruit like none I'd seen.
Marly Youmans, Throne of Psyche
And so. Tricky and dangerous, to speak of plenitude,
when sober industrious folk are starving in the cold,
blaming themselves for rules broken or kept –
still we must, because there it is, the sweet unfolding,
of gifts unknown, undreamed of, the platters overflowing;
scented baths and servants nested in their shells,
awakening to service as butterflies
awaken to the sky, ready with mouth and fingers.
To say I did not earn this is to speak
a language they have never learned: their wide dark eyes
open into nights far deeper, and they rise from seas
that beat in arteries of Earth. Where they took shape
nickel and iron spurt like mercury.
There is nothing more dangerous than to receive
such gifts. Except refusing them.