He’d told her he would brave the fires of Hell
if need be, just to have her by his side,
and now he turns away with measured stride
toward the gate, the world. All will be well,
he will not let her down. Her trusting gaze
enfolds him as he goes. He nears the gate
where, surely, he must turn. Not long to wait –
and here’s where myth and make-believe part ways –
he turns, holds wide his arms and calls her name.
One headlong dash, a helter-skelter race,
she circles him and leaps to lick his face,
entreats a repetition of the game.
A passing jogger pauses in his jog –
“Eurydice? An odd name for a dog.”