Cupid and Psyche by Linda Ann LoSchiavo

Cupid and Psyche
LindaAnn LoSchiavo

The lover’s prize is friction —— Cupid knows ——
As sex re-models the interior,
Begins to dangerously mural a mind.

          Young Psyche pocketed virginity,
          Kept innocence like an extra knife: stainless,
          Always prepared. When Psyche slept, blades dropped
          Across blue blankness of those still cold sheets.

          Unzipping skin, she let her heart escape
          Through every crack. Permissive fantast, she,
          Her red dreams were a staircase beckoning
          Bare feet up higher, thoughts as volatile
          As a pencil in good hands —— a poet’s grip ——
          As potent as an arrow, golden tipped.

“I’ll have her!” Cupid vowed. His quiver twitched
Like a splendid fish that’s made for midnight lures.
By dark disguised, he tempts her off to bed
Where night’s a crown of hours snapped, disarmed
By Cupid’s hand. Soon Psyche’s dreams become
Odd bliss of love without a history.

          This knowledge changes her old known, confused,
          Dispersed by friction urging syllables
          Towards shrieks. Her sisters worry she’s possessed!
          But, quiet in the day, young Psyche thought
          Of odd-found liberty, especially when
          A wing of wind came, brushing off complaints
          By setting everything to harmony.

The lover’s prize, nonfiction, Cupid knows.
Already seeing her virginity
A yellowed lacework of remains, he moved
Conclusion closer to reality,
Positioned Psyche’s hesitant young mind
Towards opening, and spanned a mammal love,
Red-blooded end to end. One arrow poised
Would wash away a pale old boundary
In an orgy of strange rain, bring mystery
She hadn’t known till now, create desire
Too rich to go in one direction long.


This god of love, who comes by night unchained,
And stripped of his familiar cloak —— disguised
In baby skin —— encouraged Psyche’s waves,
That made her body rainbowed, glistening
While arching over pillows spread across
A growing light blue blankness, still warm sheets
Impressed . . . by dew? Or wings moist from other worlds?

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