I hear the creak of heaven feathers sprouting from a human back.
The Sirens wave me off
My craft of paranoia floats away
No paddle, just my wet arm
And a hurried fear.
Sail from the rocks, needle sharp sunset
Calls of good luck from pin-toothed mouths
Damp, dappled white- green hands wave me away
The same cold clamminess touches my brow
And the space beneath my boat is deeper than I could imagine.
Nausea pales my skin to grey
My mirrored face in the waves could so easily be one who’s changed their mind
My wet arm reflects, a slender hook to pull me beneath with a laugh.
Milton wrote a thing about a thing.
And he was blind.
He thought god made him so, so that he could better see the miraculous vision of a paradise lost.
An angel dictated to him, he said.
He thought he was sort of like Theresa from Fable, or other milky-eyed, mystical figures from art.