still each enclave, cavern, cove
recalls the melted bones of Echo.
women now would hardly be
mythologically relevant once resolved
to sobbing into rotting.
still nature’s incessant longing:
lingering speech acts, howls, screams,
and moans recall a Nympha forever
dejected on all remaining forest floors.
as we with screen glance at self
in either black reflect reality, or checking
mechanistically the virtual imprint
of words we chose more carefully—
knowing the staying power of impact.
how would Ovid poetically differ
these reverberations, too, out of physical reach
from those he morally cautioned of a metamorphosis?
how is Narcissus any worse than us?
if not in mirror blankness, then in social
media portrayal, avatar, or influencing verbal
thrusts toward eternal self-conscious inadequacy
devolved to ego stroking lust or hashtag competency?
just because our reflections fit in palm,
on desktop, and in lap, does not make our
stance and angles chose any better than the rot
and flowers they’ve been warning us about