Narcissus

Each day his body, tangled in ferns and larkspur,
            lay elbow deep in summer
when the first wet light of morning touched his face
            and startled him back in love.

Light that must've found him a little stubborn, a little bored,
            in his daze of self-regard.
Light that mistook his stillness as tentative—
            whether it was his own reflection

or if he'd truly thought a beautiful swimming boy
            had moored himself to the bank
where Narcissus dozed, moved only when he moved,
            drank only when he drank.

Copyright © 2008 Brian Brodeur All rights reserved
from Other Latitudes
The University of Akron Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission