Doug Anderson: Cyclops

Now a boy leads him by the hand
down from the mountain
to sit on the docks and listen to the sailors curse.
Poor Polyphemus, they say,
turning away from the milky flap
of scar tissue that hangs in the great socket.
The funky smell of the sea eases his heart.
Another world has opened inside him,
bright and without limit.
He thinks, Odysseus would be lost here.
His wit and wiles would not save him.
Scylla and Charybdis are nothing
to this emptiness that holds everything.
And he sings softly now of his new blessing.

—

copyright 2015 Doug Anderson