She goes to that dark land
of her own free will
and far too often.
She blames it on snakebites:
something inside writhes, closes.
Below, something opens
invites her in, insists;
she does not resist.
In the morning, dazed,
apologetic,
she rises, stares
burning in the day’s light
she barely sees
then turns again,
descending.
I am no Orpheus
to follow her there.
I let her fall.