Hyapollo

Hyapollo

In the morning of the world, he loved me:

sweet kisses, our feet wet with dew as we climbed into

my swan chariot, soaring across the skies,

powered by our love.

We wanted to ride forever, just us two,

just as we were: one god, one mortal man,

Hyacinthus and Apollo, loving each other

in this perpetually glorious sunrise,

“Even if my feet never touch Earth again,” he told me.

I wasn’t his only suitor.

In the competition for his love, I won out

over the gods of the West and North Wind, and a Thracian prince

so skilled at singing he challenged the Nine Muses out of spite

when he failed to lure Hyacinthus from my side.

But out of all gods and mortals—he chose me.

This striking young prince of Sparta, son of Clio, muse of history,

chose me for myself, he said—the me who loved making music with my lyre,

though I burned with responsibility for the full power of the Sun.

He wanted me to have fun, leave time for love,

forget the wrath of Father Zeus’ brow

long enough to live my life.

We loved each other simply. Yes, he was beautiful—

a man so lovely he’d captured the hearts of gods and princes—

but mostly I loved his delight and inner fire, his gentle heart—

and the fact that from the first, he only had eyes for me.

No garden could match the beauty of Hyacinthus’ loving gaze,

sweet and open, as he praised all the ways we fit together,

though we both knew his span was so short compared to mine.

A terrible fact. I could never have enough of him.

Inspired by the lavender he braided into his hair,

I wreathed his head in flowers;

wove him crowns of his favorites, purples and blues;

brushed long silky locks back behind his ears.

Most mortals effused about my generative powers as god of the Sun,

offering worship and humble thanks;

but he asked how my day was, whether it got too hot when I crossed near Selene

and she bounced back the Sun’s rays into my eyes.

He offered to drive my swan chariot home to my cloud-soft bed

when I grew tired from a late night (usually with him).

We laughed and toyed with sports and games; learned new skills,

so he might have some chance of keeping up with me.

He demanded I play honestly, not hold back.

Suggested discus, a game of skill and friendly competition.

Hyacinthus teased that I had an edge: “It’s not much different

than hurling the Sun across the sky each day.”

I’d try anything for him; and besides, I loved his lean, lithe body,

the way he held himself, curling around the discus, winding up.

So we played, just two young men running in a meadow,

seeing who could throw farther, and whether we’d skill enough

to shear a peach or a plum from its waiting branch,

so we might feed one another these sweets, these fruits of love.

Did I doom him—a god daring to love a mortal,

and praying every day to give up my powers so I might die with him,

unless he could be elevated to godhood with me?

Was it a gust of wind? Jealousy from Zephyrus, who loved Hyacinthus too?

Was it simple, unthinking accident? The Fates?

My fault, for hurling the discus too hard—using all my might,

laughing at my love’s boasts of assured victory?

What did reasons matter?

The discus soared up, glinting in the Sun.

It sheared cleanly through clouds,

then zoomed back along its path.

My own love raced to get it for me.

The sheer force of my hurl bounced it off the Earth

to break his head and my heart.

My love lay bleeding on the very grass

where we’d laughed and tussled and loved,

wounded by my deed.

I swept him up in my arms, murmuring, “Never change, love. Never change.”

What I meant was—Don’t die.

But I didn’t want him to think he was dying—in case thought inspired deed.

Either wish, impossible—unless I found a way

to share my immortality with him.

Tears sprang from my eyes like rain, washing his bloody cheeks,

as if I could cleanse him of death.

Hyacinthus murmured he loved me, implored me to remember our happiness.

I clasped his hand, begged him to live.

He raised hopeful eyes to me—so much love and trust.

I never wanted to lose that look.

I tried to force Time to give him back.

Smiled through my tears, stroking his cheek and telling him

how much I would love him at each stage of his mortal life:

how beautiful he’d be at eighty, with hair as fluffy and white as lamb’s wool,

and permanent laugh lines etched about his eyes and mouth

from so much happiness. How I’d kiss every care from his brow

until he felt young again, and love him morning, noon, and night.

And so I kissed him, and so he raised his lips to mine—

so dry, so cold, his ghost of a kiss.

He thanked me for all the ways I was the light of his soul.

“You give me life,” he whispered.

But I could not.

He folded like a flower once the Sun has gone.

But I was right there.

I tried everything I knew, the god of the gods-damned Sun—

and thus all growing things—

but I couldn’t keep him alive.

I begged my uncle Hades to kill me: take me to the Underworld

to be with my love. Even if we were thin shades of ourselves,

it must be better than this—a life without him.

But immortality is a bitch.

The best I could do—sing to him night and day, hoping he’d hear me.

Transform his blood into flowers,

for flowers are Sun-loving beings, and so was he.

He loved them so, these larkspurs, their purple and deep blue

that I forever marked with the Greek sign for sorrow.

His new-named hyacinths spring up all over, voicing my lament: Alas, alas.

I water them with my tears. But my lover does not come back.

Granted, no memorial could be enough,

not even with the whole city of Sparta celebrating Hyacinthia;

nothing worth the years he lost at my hand—

he, a mortal who had none to spare;

me, a god with too much.

But when poets speak of hyacinthine hair, or lament our lost love,

I wish they’d remember instead:

how sweetly and bravely we loved; how tenderly we fit;

the thrill of sharing a chariot across the sky;

the glow of joy in Hyacinthus’ eyes

when he stared straight into the Sun

and saw only me.

Adele Gardner (they/them, Mx.,  https://gardnercastle.com/ ) has a poetry collection, Halloween Hearts, released by Jackanapes Press ( https://www.jackanapespress.com/product/halloween-hearts ) and over 500 stories, poems, art, and articles published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, PodCastle, Flash Fiction Online, Daily Science Fiction, and more. A member of SFWA, HWA, SFPA, and the Poetry Society of Virginia, and graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, this genderfluid, bi night owl coedited SFPA’s short poetry anthology Dwarf Stars 2022 with Greer Woodward ( https://sfpoetry.com/ds/22dwarfstars.html )

and guest-edited the Arthuriana issue of SFPA’s poetry journal Eye to the Telescope (Issue 27, January 2018,  https://eyetothetelescope.com/intros/027intro.html ). Twelve of Adele’s poems won or placed in the Poetry Society of Virginia Awards, Rhysling Award, and Balticon Poetry Contest. Adele serves as literary executor for father, mentor, and namesake Delbert R. Gardner.

Copyright © 2025 by Adele Gardner

Published by Orion's Beau