Polyphemus


Old now, battered; simply
looking for a place to die. Wait out
the last breath.

Unlike your named sake
you eat nothing -- that was
the second self's task, not yours

The fantastic fringe of your ear/nose/antenna
seeks the other. I hope he found you. Now you
come to my back window, like a child seeking its mother

I hold my hand beneath you for measuring
you fall into that hand, home
But it isn't; I have other things need doing

I offer you the window again. You are done with
seeing, holding on. Now, there is only letting go.
What does that last eye see? Nothing, nothing. . . .

I find you a bed of straw, lean near to listen to that
last whisper: Mother, it was wonderful ~~
Thank you.




jjl
3 Jules 2009