Avery G Garcia

Osiris

“Is he really dead?” Emory passes me a scalpel, a silver bone in the light of the great celestial pearl. They begin suturing the large gash down the middle of the spring torso, removing the tubing and clamps as they work their way down the body. Naked in the moonlight, its every feature is discernible, the strokes of Pygmalion evident in every gliding ripple of muscle and smooth curvature of flesh. Its lips even still bear the crimson holly of youth, those meltwater irises rivaling the stars in their glistening alertness. And so, Alfred Douglas remains Ganymede even in death.