my mother named me echo
before the word meant anything beyond
something only mine to treasure.
i grew up in the mountains,
among the oaks and the pines
and the sweet-smelling hyacinths and violets.
i loved the lush forests and the fruitful valleys and the tall peaks
but mostly i loved to tell stories.
the king of the gods used to visit us,
the girls of the forests taking their turns on his arm.
when his wife came poking around,
it was my job to keep her distracted.
she cursed me one day,
furious that my chatter had kept her
from the secrets the man she has married hid.
i would never again speak
the stories i had loved and cherished so.
instead i could only repeat
words just spoken to me.
the other girls found it hilarious
that their deeds had stripped me of my tongue.
they mocked me,
forced me to speak words i didn’t want to say.
i became nothing more than a parrot,
something for their own amusement.
and then one day,
you came.
you didn’t see me,
nor any of the other girls who flocked to you.
you refused their advances, something not even zeus had done.
and so eros pulled his bowstring taut,
and sent an arrow into my heart.
and by the lake, i worked up the nerve to make my move.
but retribution did first, striking you with one of her arrows,
causing you to look into the water
and fall in love with the one you saw there.
i love you, you called to your reflection,
your nose dipping into the water as you leaned close.
i love you, i love you! I shouted after you.
go away, you said, captivated by the boy winking at you from the water.
go away, go away, i cried.
what i really tried to say was
look away, look away.
you didn’t.
you stared for hours,
gaze fixed on the man in the water.
days turned into hours,
hours into days,
until your blank eyes stared
at nothing more than an empty shell.
i fell beside you,
my cries silent.
i pressed my hands to your body, into the soil,
letting my fingers,
given to me by the mountains,
perform their magic.
the flower glistens in the evening sun,
sprouting out of the water,
the stem as green as your eyes,
the petals as gold as your hair.
a narcissus, i called it, after you.
the name has faded, it’s called a daffodil now,
but your name lives on,
a title for those
who care little for girls like me
and only for themselves.
and so does mine.
the girl who once captivated
even the queen of the gods with her stories,
am nothing more than the repeated call
of a woman pleading to a man
cursed to never return her love.