First Dance Epithalamion

by Beth Bachmann

Darkness overtakes the house – the shadow of Icarus’ wing
or the sun sinking below the water.

A mosquito caught in the light crackles, hovers almost
and then arches his back and lets go.

It’s too early yet for the stars to grace us
with a sacrificial dance,
            a little one about spring, perhaps, or ecstasy.
            Weeping after a riot. Abduction.

In the garden, a swarm refuses to listen,
waltzes frenzied on the broken roses.

Beth Bachmann’s poems are forthcoming in The Southern Review, The Antioch Review,and Image. She teaches creative writing at Vanderbilt University.