Wolf Eyes
“And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and,
startled, gave back my too-sudden image.”
were still dizzy with your presence and,
startled, gave back my too-sudden image.”
Rilke
I was dizzy, drunk with the sight
of you, stumbling in darkness
toward the stairs.
And I came lurching at myself,
wolf eyes swollen red.
I was tongue and teeth and claws.
Call it panic or call it love.
When you touched my face,
the chill of your fingers tingled my skin.
You held a lantern and let it burn.
Above our heads, a mirror glowed,
giving back the light.
Your silver voice sounded in my ears,
and I lay on the floor all night,
sleeping and healing and breathing in the dust.
In the Days of Plague
“…count no man happy until he dies
free of pain at last”
“…count no man happy until he dies
free of pain at last”
Sophocles
There was an investigation. Committees,
mostly men, worked for months uncovering
documents, interviewing those involved.
Some said the Cretans brought plague
in their ships, others blamed sacrilegious
youth or the theatre, or barbarians in the
marketplace, and the many others clustered
at the gates. Townspeople rolled in like waves.
Placards demanded that the dying stop.
They wanted rain, they wanted protection
from blood spots and the reek of dying cows.
In the days of plague, they were ready to build
a wall, if that’s what the gods required.
They would raise it with their hands, hauling
bricks until their fingers bled. All night,
sacrificial fires burned, women keened, poets
wore their throats to rough and bloody rags.
In the morning, the King limped through
the palace, into the courtyard. His face
never changed, like mask of bone, a hard thing
set to stare down the troubles of the day.
Though he had grown older since the Sphinx,
his grip was still strong. A cheer rose
from a thousand mouths. To the east, a cerulean
sky, no clouds, but a bitter sun. Olive trees
wilted at the edge of the yard and in the fields
beyond. Crows circled. Even the priests knew
to keep silent, when every child could read the signs.
mostly men, worked for months uncovering
documents, interviewing those involved.
Some said the Cretans brought plague
in their ships, others blamed sacrilegious
youth or the theatre, or barbarians in the
marketplace, and the many others clustered
at the gates. Townspeople rolled in like waves.
Placards demanded that the dying stop.
They wanted rain, they wanted protection
from blood spots and the reek of dying cows.
In the days of plague, they were ready to build
a wall, if that’s what the gods required.
They would raise it with their hands, hauling
bricks until their fingers bled. All night,
sacrificial fires burned, women keened, poets
wore their throats to rough and bloody rags.
In the morning, the King limped through
the palace, into the courtyard. His face
never changed, like mask of bone, a hard thing
set to stare down the troubles of the day.
Though he had grown older since the Sphinx,
his grip was still strong. A cheer rose
from a thousand mouths. To the east, a cerulean
sky, no clouds, but a bitter sun. Olive trees
wilted at the edge of the yard and in the fields
beyond. Crows circled. Even the priests knew
to keep silent, when every child could read the signs.
Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).
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