Rooted
by Colin Bailes
Caravaggio painted Narcissus
rooted to shore, chiaroscuro brushed
across his face, his hands
locked in a circle
with his reflection.
All else is darkness,
lacquer-black background,
depthless pool—the all-consuming
yoke of desire.
Most nights, I didn’t know
what I longed for, each drink
reaching for something I could never touch,
craving never sated.
In another version,
Narcissus, lurching for his reflection,
enthralled, slips into the pond,
hands grasping skyward,
clutching fistfuls of water.
All those wasted
years, reeling on a barstool, peering
into a bottomless beer glass,
my reflection:
a drowned man staring back.