Myrrha

Photo courtesy and copyright property of Roger Bultot, provided for the express purpose of prompting Rochelle Wisoff-FieldsFriday Fictioneers drabbling community. Other works of 100 words may be found and/or contributed here.

The tree is knotted with tears.
They smell as bitter as they appear,
gobs of gummed up sorrow
that failed to fall
past an empty, round swell.
The yawning hollow’s warm
and miserable, beautiful
and tragic — a product of misshaped affection.

I want to climb inside, but can’t
figure out my own dimensions.

Myrrha, could you have been
as disastrous as Orpheus sang?
He tried to defy death
in the name of his love
before being rent into islands
by a scorned forest of women.
Only then did he know Eurydice again,

when vines and bark climbed
over our hollows.

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