Aurea Mediocritas

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.