Pilgrimage to Skorpios

by Aidan Andrew Dun


for the immortal Maria Callas

Sullen clouds, grey
Parisian light:
a black-and-white
Pye television flickers.
She, discarded merchandise
of La Scala, in the year
of the last execution
by guillotine, sits and eyes
a small demonic
gramophone from which
emerges her own
skinny ghost
swearing the childlessness
was reasonable
given the justification
of this airborne voice
which soars out
once more, gold
cadenzas crossing
the room, song
rippling in flight.

A bleak sky
to the hell
which is retrospect.
The bright, tinny
repetitions fail to please.
She will make a trip
to the island of the sun
kneel before her God
deceased and say:
‘I will not be long
waiting here alone
my heart is dead
daylight has gone.’