I Would Call Him Odysseus

I would call him Odysseus

And he would blink three times,

Eyes full of color and scratched like old cd backs,

Face turned towards a mirror, tired

Watching mud-tanned skin move like liquid.

He would speak in shades of red

A voice full of sandpaper eloquence, detailing volumes of

How clever he is

How trapped he is on islands of poetry,

Let him speak of his tortured love of Calliope

And let his pride again rip off the heads of every friend he’s ever known.

Let him make excuses.

Let him live alone in his mind and conversely claim loyalty,

He will scream mounting wisdom at one eyed Polyphemus

And he will remain obtuse, self-respect turning his mind

Into oxidized-iron.

He is the sword and he is

The worn hilt, full of desperate fingerprints

And he will never let the memory of worn leather live behind him.

Famed, claimed worship by Athena

Living life like lotophagi, devouring praise to his name

And publicly claiming humble intelligence

Proving himself otherwise.

And he will look in the mirror and sigh,

Eyes sunburnt white and fading and teeth,

Blackened to the ninth circle

And he will tell me to look down from my reflection.

Miss. Dubious