A Meeting On The Heights - Poem by Scott Minar
Despite language difficulties it came
to a meeting on the heights.
— Zbigniew Herbert, trans. Alissa Valles
On the last rock of Olympus sits a god
no one knows, his ancient head over-leafed
with wisdom and more than a bit of pain
from holding Prometheus under water
after liberation. His hands
are made of brown quartz. They grind
to silt if he grabs you, but he never does.
What he is Lord of no one remembers,
not even the god himself.
In fact, he is no longer certain
of his body at all, except for the hands
which drag him down. Two weeks into Spring
Aphrodite found him and kissed his thighs.
Even that did nothing.
The winds tousle his hair or loins.
What if he didn't exist? he muses.
What if the lordliness he was born to
shook itself out in the autumn leaves
of a great forest in which the wind
itself had become a passenger.
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