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"OH WATERS, TEEM WITH MEDICINE TO KEEP MY BODY SAFE FROM HARM, SO THAT I MAY LONG SEE THE SUN." - Rig Veda
The eye appeared in the sky one early
Afternoon. At first many people blamed
Atmospherics, roiled air in the surly
September heat. Later weathermen claimed
The arched lid, serene blue iris were quirks
Not of nature but of the mind while late-
Night evangelists saw the ends of works
And days and told us how much to donate.
But still the eye gazed down upon our globe.
Telescopes were focused. The pope implored
God for forgiveness. NASA sent a probe.
George Harrison re-released “My Sweet Lord.”
Then the Oscar Awards aired on NBC
And everyone went inside to watch TV
He pulls the knife out of my corpse, rinses
off blood, skin, bone, shock—they clog
the sink's strainer. I can't empty it. Anger
erupts, Vesuvius; my translucent form
inflates. I still hover in the same place.
Why can't I move? I can see but can't
close my eyes: I don't have any. He turns
toward me. “No!” I shout without a mouth.
He hurries through me. For an instant,
I swallow him. He peeks at the street,
grabs my wrists, drags my body to the door.
“Stop! It's mine.” He opens the door, glances
left, right, pulls my carcass into the corridor.
The door shuts. Grief wraps me in its mist,
my shroud, now a straitjacket. Someone
bangs on the door. “Who is it?” I scream
in my silent voice. “It's me,” I whisper.