StylusLit

March 2018

Back to Issue 3

Charon

By Jena Woodhouse

On still midwinter evenings by the river,
curlew cease their keening, fluid shadows
petrified in attitudes of vigilance,
prefiguring the rhythmic creak of rowlocks
from the farther shore – the oarsman bending
to his craft, his breath strangely inaudible;
the stars remote from souls that writhe
and grapple with their mortal clay,
as the dreaded boatman nears implacably
to claim his fee: the silver coins that seal
the vacant gaze after a life has flown;
the lozenge of gold foil placed upon lips bereft
of breath, of speech, to signify the closure
of their embassy of truth and lies;
to dignify the silence of the tongue.