ISSUE: Spring 2015
Even before I speak
the gods are hawking answers,
vying for a slot above my head.
From the mouth of a sphinx
they pour in droves:
the composite gods,
one-third ox,
one-third calf,
one-third claw;
the lesser gods, magicians,
snake charmers, lion tamers,
rainmakers, soothsayers;
and all the sea divinities,
the woodland gods, imported from the city,
the faceless, agrarian gods.
In a pantheon no bigger than a search bar,
in a search bar no wider than a coffin,
I mouth my prayers
as the bishop begs his supper,
as the blind geometer
chews his perfect triangles.
What blood is on my lips?
I pucker like Sick Bacchus,
clutching grapes I never picked.
