Four Torches

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, vii, 182

Brief was the marriage
of our cousin Clearista.
Lamp doused, she stood,
her maiden girdle
loosened, listening
for the steps of the bridegroom.

The four immodest torches
cornered the bridal bed
in the adjacent chamber.
She blushed to think of eyes,
divine or human, seeing
the promised pleasures.

Sounds came to her:
the epithalamium sung
by all his companions,
the raucous drum and horn
of Priapus, the flutes
to calm her nerves.

Someone approached.
     Two hands
made a great clap
like thunder. Clearista
fell down dead.

The cries and wails rose up.
Bridegroom and friends,
the attendant maids,
lamenting the pale dawn
that followed such
a wedding banquet.

Around the rich
and canopied frame,
the four torches flamed.
Clearista’s bed
was now her bier. 

Dread Hades, attend:
Here comes the bride.