Trailing

Christopher Scott Eastman

When he left you in Bithynia, 
You slipped through the broken stable and sprinted through the garden.  

That morning prior, 
That morning, lush with dew, glistened with Sol’s light, 
His kind eyes looked down at you from his bed. 
You trailed him in the laxest of ways. 
Like this day was any other. 
Trailing off to sniff a hole, he beckoned your name. 

This name, one of many gentle secrets you share. 

He had been speaking with a new man. 
Whose voice was proud but gentle.  
You do not know their words, yet you saw new love form, 
Born in this man’s eyes, as he gazed at your closest friend. 

That day later, 
That day, with dancing bees and swathing reeds of Ceres’ splendor, 
You chased his carriage, 
But your shouts, that sung through the valley, 
Were not enough to bring him home. 
You sauntered back home, glancing behind in case he came sprinting, 
Back to your side to trail the gardens. 
His mother greeted you, embracing, 
These open arms could never wrap enough around you. 

Age made your hips give. Your eyes fail, yet you held
Your scent firm, hoping to catch his trail. 
When your legs kept you from standing, you rested. 
Upon that cool porch, the trails of which you’ve treaded, 
Now overgrown with no signs of return. 
With one last shut of your grey eyes—You open them again. 
Your senses returned.  
Feeling.  
As his hand presses against your head. 
Your thoughts muster into a feeling,  
Only palpable to such readers in the words you cannot speak: 
“Antinous, you have been waiting as I have.” 
Those trails now stretch into a ceaseless morning. 

After endless embrace, he calls your name to follow. 

“Relief of Antinous,” by Antonianos of Afrodisia, from 130-138 AD, in the National Museum of Rome, Palazzo Massimo 
Photograph taken by Christopher Eastman