Wasteful Ode

Based on a scene from T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.”

The agent of lust extends a final patronizing kiss to end an arid conversation.

A ghusty exhale lures the moor, but grass below her feet does not sing,

This time the rage on her sleeve puts out his empty glances.

She’s latched her chapel torn down the alter

Where he engaged her in sworn caresses,

Where they had planned, molded, carved.

Shadows stream minutes, months.

She turns, listens for the bell toll

Buries the wind under the hill

Tumbles into some arms

And goes home

At tea time.

The author is a junior English and Creative Writing major and a Philosophy minor. Born in Odessa, Ukraine, she fist immigrated to Moscow then United States 12 years ago.