Poem for Nietzsche’s Eyes
My office was once a girl’s room—a little swallow
cut from a mirror is still glued to the wall. At night
in the window’s doubled panes, I can see the swallow
and a twin, flying in perfect formation, steadily
into the darkness. I’m watching Nietzsche this evening,
replaying one minute and sixteen seconds of snowy footage,
his huge, steady nineteenth-century eyes looming
from a sickbed in Weimar, indifferent to the aphrodisiacal
light that fell into the room. Forgive me, my friends,
I have ventured to paint my happiness on the wall.
He lay as though finally convinced the wall was out of reach.
And the swallows, he could no longer picture them.
Last night, snow slid from the roof with a crash
that shook the house. The footage flickers irresolutely
on the screen; I watch from deep inside the winter
of 2012. The snow drifts. The swallows don’t move unless I do.
from Heaven’s Thieves, by Sue Sinclair, Brick Books 2016, used with permission from the author. You can read other poems, and posts from Sue Sinclair below.
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