To Himself

Marcus Aurelius sits stirrupless
On his charger, awkward, reluctant
To confront the barbarians
Who could smell the flowers of decay
On the other bank of the Rhine,
Distraught at the prospect of the empire
In the hands of his only son
Who gaped at the world through lion’s jaws,
And with body oiled, ate beans and onions
With rancid gladiators, whoring away
The night with Syrians—appetites
Sharpened by the closeness of death.

How could he have fathered such a
Monster? The mob said a gladiator
Debauched his wife in his absence.

Germans threatened the empire from without;
Commodus menaced it from within.
How could a philosopher solve his dilemma?
The emperor meditated an escape to a Stoic heaven;
The horse, unguided by its reins, carried
The sick emperor further into the forest.

– 101 –

Bloody Mary

In Casa Magni
Bay of Spezzia

Encircled by cicada shrills,
The mother of immortal Frankenstein
Miscarried her fifth and last,
And would have bled away her spirit
Amid marble columns, had not
Shelley

Arrested her life
In a bath of ice.

Here and Now

It’s like sitting alone
on a seesaw—

you squat immobile,
bum to plank, knees to head,

waiting, waiting for an angel
to make you fly.

The sun is setting,
and I’m still waiting.