I, Tiresias

I, Tiresias, will never see enough.
Twisted in the flesh of two bodies
I wonder, and am never satisfied.
Between these augur’s eyes reigns chaos
midnight, napalm
a ghost train.

I was truth, a woman,
waiting on the platform as a stranger’s ear,
for some old man talking on through all the worries of the earth.
The plastic in his palm sweats
pink and chartreuse.
We wait together, willing and unwilling,
pasted on the asphalt
his voice wavers
in the humid grey of a half-set sun.

I was the man too,
who did not break the neck he held.
Your throat, brown, beating,
full to overflowing
beautiful.
The son of a sulfur city, in stone-burnt strength
iron wheels: roaring
my hands crush and split,
bone like cherries
but I held your death like a child.

Between the flesh of two bodies
stands a miracle.
I, Tiresias, do not see. And it is enough.

Photo by Jerome Barre on Unsplash.

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