Bruising the Heel


At first, like anyone, I
did not know that I had
died.  That moment just after
a fall, when the mind
goes suddenly, suddenly
returns--
             and the hands
at my shoulders, lifting
me:  I should have
noticed their flawlessness, no
grooves in the fingertips
from pressing the neck
of the lyre, no calluses
carrying buckets of water in which
to bathe me--
                         and I had already
come out of that wounded
body with Him, turned
to look at the paired
holes in the heel, the head
of the snake I leapt upon,
                  the stupid
hunter backing into the bushes,
too blind even to see
the little wave
I sent him before
reaching for Hermes' ankles

and the exhalation
of the wings against my wrists, the beating
of the blood
that poisoned me--