Poets tend to accuse the species of whatever
Frailty belongs to them personally. Human kind,
Wrote T.S. Eliot, placidly, cannot bear too much
Reality. In the dark before dawn, body dozing,
Dreaming in fits and starts, felt an arm, something
Like an arm, heavy as a sturgeon, but warm
Slide down the rib cage to create an awakening,
The genesis of this, what you, my dear, are reading.
Daughter had cottoned on to magic as illusion
While practicing juggling and card tricks the evening
Beforehand: “Every magic trick’s a lie,” she said,
And somewhere, past the batty souls of suitors,
The dream people, and the other gibbering shades,
The shadow of Odysseus, journeys ended, nodded.
Daughter also carried the name of his goddess,
His fellow trickster, immortal to his human,
The one who made all mists and made all mists
Disperse. Ah, well. Mountains are old, but they remain
Green. Respond to no one, she said, no one
You can dragoon to play the fool in this, my scene.
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