~After Paul Celan~
That five-footed freakis a spawnless hybrid,
yet I am its offspring –
son of a circus simian,
tuxed in white yarns
with a face of hands,
shrieking at the strumof exalted strings
that thrum and bind,
but then snap underthe dumb blade to lie
like slackened lines.
Who sired the barkthe puppets sang
that turned from stone
the uncanny granite?Not Medusa
And not I lost in I,
Scanning what criesfrom the maelstrom
for the sake of a sound.
Who was it then?Your eunuch self
walking on his head
to find blue breathin the black heart
of a sterile silence?
Go naked in the air.What do you find there?
Voices? Hands? Or Feet?
A lamp or a mirror,or your own leers
in the freak show?