|
PINEAL
I stroke
my son's skull,
thumb the tympanic fontanel,
and despair. A bone clock,
it
tocks closed
with organic precision—
measuring his retreat to self,
meting
the remnants
of his lizard life, his perfect
unmediated eden.
Oh
bone, open! Window
his vestigial eye—
that
noble primitive
robed in frontal folds
like a shaman king drumming
the
moon's rhythm
into muscle, egg, gut.
Never
shutter his brain
from god's sun,
the ecstatic slam of Thou,
the
lit world
that shortcuts eye
and
I. Instead, bone, spread
like a lover's thighs
to
nourish his pineal
with light
filtered
pure by profane flesh
like rain through sand to Alph.
Mitchell Metz
|