/ˈɛkoʊ/; Greek: Ἠχώ, Ēkhō, "echo", from ἦχος (ēchos), "sound"
Arrest. Arrest. Breath and time halt. A wren sings out to a canyon. No response but echo. A woman in the canyon stands clear, a heartbeat in her ears, for what? Not another love song. Not another sonic boom. Not another ancient myth that surges through to flat-line. We’ve flat-lined. Who loves any more? Who ever did? Take a lesson from the heart, Narcissus: it gives; it takes; it regenerates. Take a lesson from the heart, Echo: it is the sound of itself again and again and again. But, yes, arrest. Arrest when she hears his name. Arrest when they embrace. Arrest when he sees her dress rise in the wind as wings. Arrest when his face disappears. Arrest when her voice goes clear. Vanity love. Mannered love. No. She wants the blood love of oxygen, the electric record of touch. Physical love. Passionate love. Her heart’s four chambers blued with birdsong. The wren sings to itself in the canyon. Yes, another love song. Yes, another sonic boom. Yes, another ancient myth that surges, scourges, and dies. Woman in the canyon calls out, her heart beats inside her fear: no response but echo. No echo.