I saw the face of God today
in a sea-blue room
with dogwood flowers
overhead, and Fiji,
in triptych, on the wall.
Adam West was there
but not in costume,
where sirens sing
a vein is dead.
Can’t get the needle in.
Wriggle with the needle,
slippery worm. Hunting
for an open window, door,
anywhere to jab,
but they protest –
like it’s my fault –
while comparing dues.
Son of Laertes was there,
strapped to his post, and
sailors wearing masks
with slits for eyes.
My nemesis, too,
drowning in the middle
of the blue sea room,
goddess executing justice
with a sharp magnetic knife.
She made them belt me in,
send me down the Nile,
up the slope of Sinai,
up Olympus, Fiji,
diving under skin.
Tiresias was there,
with discs for eyes,
between blindness and sight,
listening to the song of birds.
Sailors, lay me on a pyre
of hot blankets,
wrapped in flames
only robins can see.
How to make the lids
stop twitching
with sixteen muscles
jumping up to run away?
I close my eyes
but healing sounds cannot
put out the hammer pounding.
Then he enters, shining white,
with dogwood flowers overhead.
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