“Mephistopheles”

           She glides from treasure to treasure—

                        deep emerald capsules,

                                    liquored anise,

                                                flowering poppy,

                                                            Heaven’s Sublime Milk.

Her clawed hand trembles with

            black need—

                        her eyes, radiant

                                    with despair;

Her full, ruby lips parted and cracked.

            She screams

                        a silent, heart

                                    tearing vow;

Plunges the dream quill into the

            pulsating vessel

                        and sighs—as

                                    golden morning

                                                sunshine throbs

Through her aesthetic soul.

            Then, she

                        turns, floating

                                    with Apollo

                                                across the sky,

And closes the door to reality.

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman