Kris Bigalk uses the Narcissus myth to comment on loss and love’s persistence.
My narcissus was a gift, a raw round heart encased in paper brown skin
space as my thumb closed around him.
After I put him into his bed, covered with cold earth, I waited, and he opened his fist,
reached up through the soil with his three fingered hand.
You know the rest of the story, how he became lost in himself, drowned himself
in his idea of himself.
All that’s left now is his withered body, cut off, lying in the dirt, turning to dirt, the
snow slowly burying him. But his heart, the one I loved first, beats underground.
Kris Bigalk has published several poems with us. Browse her work here.
(originally published in here/there: poetry)
Interested in submitting poetry to The Good Men Project? Check out our guidelines.
Like The Good Men Project on Facebook
Photo by Sofi/Flickr; painting, Narcissus, by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898).