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Reptilian Tiresias
On a day brimming with the heaviness of being myself, I went off into the country
And to the pond.
The frogs leapt at the shore
As I took my weighted steps,
Feeling the sun hit my back,
Protected by only a sweater from the last of the wintry winds.
Suddenly, I beheld a creature that did not flee from my step:
A mossy-backed turtle I thought was dead,
Lay sunk into the water, its dark, heavy head obscured, held at an angle,
It lay only half submerged,
Basking in our shared sun.
When I leaned closer to investigate,
Back bent,
Rainboots
Touching the tips
Of the water,
The beast lifted its head, only to reveal a distorted visage.
Slanted eyes that moved, blinking slowly, but could not open,
A nose too-protruding,
Something was awry.
I couldn’t identify the species,
Because of the face.
So uncanny, but peaceful, lifted above the stilled water.
And with a shock,
I realized the creature was maimed.
It was blind.
And the ancient Trachemys turned its head,
Slowly and heavy with knowing,
To face me directly.
Seeing me entirely,
But not by sight.
And I,
Familiar with the spirits of these woods,
Assured myself I had come face to face with
Reptilian Tiresias.
So, weary and lost as I was, I held his ‘gaze,’
Respectful and thankful of his decided company, under the late winter sun,
And welcomed what wisdom of the future he was preparing to offer.
Perhaps a solution to my sorrowful displacement,
In this modern realm.
Thoughts swam quickly, viciously, like the feeding minnows of the shore,
Of what I’d hoped he would reveal to me.
“My future career,” caught the light,
But was dismissed.
When I stared into the ‘eyes’ of Reptilian Tiresias,
Even “How can I be happy” seemed an incorrect question.
I was surprised there was not even a hint of the word “love.”
If you are ever unsure of what you want,
Find a prophet,
And study what flickers in your mind before
Their lips part.
If I was to gain a shred of knowledge, however,
I knew I couldn’t prejudice any telepathy
With my own projected insecurity
Or hope.
So I opened my mind,
The way only scattered people can; clarity determined by desperation,
To the turtle.
And what thoughts arose were not dramatic, Theban prophecy,
Or a vision of myself changed; a different version of what I found insufferable,
Nor in a voice outside my own.
It was the somber thought, sobering by the nature of admittance:
“We simply are who we are, wounds and all.”
I took this with sincerity.
And I admit, I have walked straighter since.
I no longer flee to the woods to escape myself,
I go because I like it there.
I do not blame my hand when it trembles,
I don’t hold glass longer than I need to.
Or at least I try.
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