Capsized into Heaven

I cannot know 
What this hark means 
But it’s not time for the D-shaped 
Instrument, guilting silently 
For sound 
Between my thighs
To speak 

*

Eurydice said to spin webs 
And all that is left
To infuse
In her legs

*

You will find beloved hounds and mistresses 
With petaled palms to give water

(And dear slighted one: the harp 
Never existed outside of heaven
Her erasure was as marked upon 
Her conception, but made her celestial)

*

Absolve the flies 
Pouring into your rib: 
Bed is bed

*

Yawn. To be blessed by God
A wounded voice circles round the fold
Put your finger on the crease and run it hard
Please. This is not performance art
Lets get me pregnant 
Because I’m not going back to 
Orpheus, who could never really
Look. Anyway

There is no way
Out of hell,  it’s just
Going back to hell

Oh look, or don’t

*

I pray in long dry grass to Hades

My electrical hair in side ponytail and

Hell is my amorous amorphous 

Marissa Zappas is a perfumer and poet living in New York City. She holds a MA in Anthropology from The New School for Social Research (2015) and is classically trained in perfumery.