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There is no hurry here. Were I to steal a kiss of stone, my tools would be scattered about the yard, hastily dropped as I made my way to climb the pedestal. But her sickle rests gently against the grain; her water pitcher neatly centered. She stands on tiptoe and as she leans she imagines herself as Psyche dressed in funeral clothes awaiting the arrival of her destined husband, only later to discover that she has both won and lost the heart of Eros. His heart now immortalized in stone, cupped by five roses, still burning with the flames of passion. Then she sees it. Just as she did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Eros is pointing over his shoulder; she looks. These are not funeral clothes and I am very much alive. And here comes my husband driving the oxen from the fields. His kiss and touch warm and full of desire. Why do I find myself in an embrace of stone day after day? She removes herself from Psyche and gathers her pitcher and sickle, leaving the grain for her husband to carry home.

L. Orr - Northwestern University

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