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Narcissus at the Pharmacy

Now that I am sick,

I have become

so important

to myself.


My reflection in every

surface, no matter

how marbled or matte.


My story swelling

like a Magic Eye

in every page I read.


There has been much discussion

of the life that lives within me –

The bodies and the antibodies.

The custodians and usurpers.


And like some gouty tyrant,


I have been waking

in the witching hours

obsessing over legacy


and who will inherit

my debts and vendettas.


Ach, the moon is such

a lousy prescription.

Such a queasy pill.


And the river such

an inattentive orderly.


This soil has such a

bitter bedside manner.

So unsteady a hand to hold.


Atop this crematory heap

of suffocating supplicants,


as the hot ash finds

the last of the Minoans,

scuttled in fields of saffron,


I beg and I weep and I rage:


But what about me?

Beautiful me?

What will become,

after all, of me?

This poem was originally published in the Fall 2020 Issue of Beloit Poetry Journal.

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