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Desolation of the Chimera

The whole day's heat, distilled 
Into a suffocating vapor, the sand releases. 
Against the deep blue background of the night 
Like an impossible drizzle of water, 
The frozen splendor of the stars 
Is proudly aligned alongside the full moon 
Which, from a great height, disdainfully illumines 
The remains of beasts in a boneyard. 
Jackals can be heard howling in the distance.
There is no water, palm frond, underbrush or pond. 
In its full splendor the moon looks down 
On the pitiful Chimera, its stone corroded, 
In its desert. Its missing wings, like stumps; 
Its breasts and claws mutilated by time; 
The hollows where its vanished nose and hair 
Once curled are now home 
To the obscene birds feeding 
On desolation, on death. 

When moonlight touches 
The Chimera, it seems to come alive with a sob, 
A moan that rises not from the ruin 
But from the centuries rooted inside it, immortally 
Crying over not being able to die, as the forms 
That man gives life to always die. Dying is hard, 
But not being able to die, if everything dies, 
Is perhaps harder still. The Chimera murmurs at the moon 
And its voice is so sweet it eases its desolation. 

"No victims, no lovers. Where did the people go? 
They no longer believe in me, and the unanswerable riddles 
I posed, like the Sphinx, my rival and sister, 
No longer tempt them. The divine survives, 
In all its protean forms, even though the gods die. 
That's why this deathless desire is alive in me, 
Though my form is wasted, though I'm less than a shade; 
A desire to see humanity humbled 
In fear before me, before my tempting indecipherable secret.
"Man is like an animal tamed 
By the whip. But how beautiful; his strength and his beauty, 
Oh gods, how captivating. There is delight in man; 
When man is beautiful, how delightful he is. 
Centuries have passed since man deserted 
Me and disdainfully forgot my secrets. 
And while a few still pay me some attention, 
I find no enchantment among the poets, 
As my secret scarcely tempts them and I see in them no beauty. 

"Skinny, flaccid, balding, bespectacled, 
Toothless. That's the physical aspect 
Of my former servant; and his character 
Looks the same. Even so, not many seek my secret now, 
Since they find in woman their personal sad Chimera. 
And it's just as well I'm forgotten, because anyone 
Changing infants' diapers and wiping noses while he thinks 
About some critic's praise or bad review 
Has no time to pay me any attention. 

"Can they really believe in being poets 
If they no longer have the power, the madness 
To believe in me and my secret? 
Better for them an academic chair 
Than barrenness, ruin and death, 
The generous recompense I gave my victims, 
Once I had possession of their souls, 
When men and poets still preferred 
A cruel mirage to bourgeois certainty. 

"Clearly for me those times were different 
When with a light heart I danced happily through the labyrinth 
Where I lost so many and so many others I endowed 
With my eternal madness: joyful imagination, dreams of the future, 
Hopes of love, sunny voyages. 
But the prudent ones, the cautious men, I strangled 
With my powerful claws, since a grain of madness 
Is the salt of life. Now that I've been and gone, 
I don't have any more promises for man." 

The moon's reflection sliding 
Over the deaf sand of the desert 
Leaves the Chimera stranded among shadows, 
The captive music of its sweet voice quieted. 
And as the sea pulls back the tide 
Leaving the beach denuded of its magic, 
The voice's spell, pulled back, leaves the desert 
Even more unwelcoming, its dunes 
Blind, dulled without the old mirage. 

Mute, in darkness, the Chimera seems to have retreated 
Into the ancestral night of primal Chaos; 
But neither gods, nor men, nor their creations 
Are ever nullified once they've been; they must exist 
Until the bitter end, disappearing into the dust. 
Immobile, sad, the noseless Chimera can smell 
The freshness of dawn, dawn of another day 
When death will not have pity on it, 
But its desolate existence will continue.


My father’s mother grew a garden of zinnias
to divide the house from the woods:

pop art tops in every color—cream,
peach, royal purple, and even envy

(white-green, I knew, and when the pale
petals opened in early August,

I thought they’d blush like an heirloom
tomato, heir-loom, how strings of wine-dyed

wool lay over the frame of an idea,
how my cheeks look in the mirror

after a run, always the wrong
time of day, thunder rolling around the stadium

of trees, or the sun striking the boughs
with light over and over as though to plead

the green right out of the leaves,
or so it seems to me,

too sensitive, she would say, her love
scientific)—the sunburst petals

a full spectrum except for the sea
returning to you, blue, blue,

the color appearing in language only
when we could know it like a cluster of stars

in the arms of another galaxy
while ours spirals around a black hole,

and now they grow in space, in the satellite
where we live out an idea of permanence

among galactic debris, acquiring stars,
losing vision, the skin touching nothing,

the heads little suns you watch die
on the stem if you want the bloom back.

Because People Ask What My Daughter Will Think of My Poems When She’s Sixteen

Daughter, the light of
the future is apricot,
and in it you are not
the thigh-child pointing
her earnest index finger
to the yellow balloon clearing
the willows and drifting
higher, you’re the balloon. I’m
the grasping hand. Or I’m
the oo in balloon. I’ll meet you
there. I’m the brown
strings, formerly violets, you
didn’t water. I’m the hole
in the photo, you’re the un-
safety scissors. I’m the lint
in the corners of my purse
after you steal the coins,
brown-bag lunch you pitch
after leaving my house, buttons
you undo after I've okayed
your blouse. Poems
you burn in the sink. Poems
that had to go and use
your name, never mind
that soon you’ll be sixteen, hate
your name. I’m the resemblance
you deny, fat ass
you hope your boyfriends
never see. I’ll meet you
there, that is my promise
and my threat, with this
yellow balloon as my
witness, even if I’m
dead, I’ll meet you there.