Your Poem

I’d just noticed how many of my poems
begin my pointing to me, even this one.
The capital “I” stands like a marble column
at the entry to some crumbling Greek temple
where, once inside, a colossal, looming statue
of me gazes down on you with empty white eyes.

But this time, I want to write about you.
This is a temple I’ve built for you, and you
alone. This poem is our only liturgy.
This time I want to write the kind of poem
you like. I’ll give you metaphors because
you like them. Even this temple is a metaphor.
This temple is a row of white teeth
behind which the tongue prays.
I’ll give you narrative because when you
came here and saw this place, you went
and took bright silver fish out of the stream,
wrapped it your shirt and pushed it
back under the water, up to your wrists,
your ring scraping a smooth flat stone
on the bottom, and pulled the fish back
out still soaking wet and ran to the temple.
You held the fish over your head with both
hands and let the water drip into your hair
and run down your arms, tickling
your flesh as it ran down your sides
and soaked into the band of your pants.
You lay the fish down, and with the long
jagged knife on the altar, gave the fish
as an offering to yourself. This poem
offers itself to you too. And since
you like poems that end clearly,
this is line where you raise knife,
and this is one where you bring it down.