Perseus
No words for that which holds him here so silent:
mortal on this limestone bluff, wet leaves dead
beneath wet snow and day’s last light scouring
the west face of the ridge. Last night,
it was the comet he eyed through the lens: elusive,
walleyed luminance swelled between the crosshairs. Now,
late dusk, it’s an answer he seeks of the upcountry,
of its rivers carved long ago by glaciers. Now,
it’s an answer he seeks of this stunned earth, of this
stunned body— body bound to nickel, body bound
to iron— body bound by the selfsame forces
that fix Perseus in the high north sky. But he doubts
he’s as alone as this arrangement of stars, the screech
owl’s wail descending through the night, the bobcat’s cry
to the sun-turned-moon— all of us with this need
for some belief, with this need for some faith.
That someplace deep: a fire-blazoned core. That someplace
not far: an ear for such lost and lonely music.
(for Judy Jordan)
(Bellingham Review, Spring 2013)
