Jerry H. Jenkins
ANDROCLES AND THE LIZARDS
Garden lizards hid with thin fierce grins
down in the morning glory-covered loam,
with molten eyes, and feet like tiny combs.
Sunlight glittered on their sequined skins.
Safe in their sanctuary, they awaited
morning heat to penetrate the weave
of sheltering vines. When they were warmed, they'd leave
to seek the light. I found one, dehydrated,
Crippled and still in hot midmorning sun.
I placed it back in the shade and mothering dew.
It looked at me, Confucian, as if it knew
that I meant no harm. These days, when the lizards run
To a sunny stone, and their green imperious tails
whip the rock, and their throats pulse in the heat,
I look to see if we might have chanced to meet,
but they only stare through cold reptilian veils.
BALDUR CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS
WITH THE RECYCLING CREW
Gods have blue eyes, someone wrote,
and they colonized earth in the past.
Maybe they live among us yet
as warriors, visionaries, scientists.
Now, seated with other retarded members
of the trash recycling crew
at their holiday party this chill December,
what end has this one come to?
His mild blue eyes are blank and clear
with an infant's unfocused gaze,
vague as a ragged rift of stars
somewhere in remote space.
A childish crone throws mistletoe,
pelts him in idiot glee,
hoots and shouts, then smirks, as though
amused by her own revelry.
Blue Eyes cringes in his chair and moans,
enduring her with loathing,
awaiting recycling that will not come,
staring into nothing.
FLARE
Two greyhounds saunter along a slow river.
The water is shallow, the shoreline is wide.
They're sculpted as porcelain, supple and sleek.
A bright light is growing along the far side.
They slow and they stare, then uncoil like springs,
sprinting like racers in desperate flight
from the flare that will burn them
to thigh-bone and thin leg
and hollow-eyed skull—
from the ravenous light
that will sear them to cinders,
suspended in mid-stride,
twin filigrees hung
in a sunburst
of white.
I'M THE BRAZEN ANT
I'm the shelf that wakes you when my breaking
spills the heirloom dishes with a crash,
the troubling dream you cling to after waking,
the long-lost ring that shows up in your trash.
I'm the brazen ant that boldly crawls
along your white and sterile bathroom floor,
the death's-head moth upon your bedroom wall,
a voice you know you must have heard before.
You don't know my name, you'll never see
my face, though I disturb you. Where you go,
in comforting familiar reverie,
I'll be with you, one thin layer below
Assumptions and the world you think is yours.
Surely you recall those moments when
some sharp-remembered snatch of song recurs,
or sudden fragrance startles you again.
You glance toward the clock: 10:54,
the year a nova seared the sunlit sky.
Coincidence, you think, turn toward the door—
the bulb flares up, then dies as you pass by.
I'll see you soon, my dear, though when we meet,
you may not recognize me, so take care.
Watch who, and what, you'll see out on the street—
but even then, I'll catch you unaware.
PALDEN LHAMO
My beauty made me famous. Everyone
desired me: demiurges, gods and men.
I wed a king unworthy of his throne—
arrogant and lacking discipline.
He sacrificed the young without remorse,
but lacked the will to offer up his own.
I pled with him to spare them, but of course
he didn't. In protest, I killed our son.
Consumed with hate, I fled the king, defiled
myself in charnel ash. Now, stark and thin,
and filled with fury, I redeem my child
by killing other demons. Pilgrim, when
you seek your own salvation, understand:
you cleanse your soul by bloodying your hands.
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