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
that flaked off in my hands. He slept in my palm, nestled into the dark
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)
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Photo by Sofi/Flickr; painting, Narcissus, by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898).