Bacchus as an Old Man
Life is a box of Christmas lights tangled
As eyes, as raving as maenads in fawn
Skins weaving ivy wreaths for lovers that
Do not come, betrothed with a swift breath curse.
This lethargic Dionysus pleads to
Be widowed, he wears a bulls head bloated
On the sofa, still intoxicated
With the dance, a bastard infixed as a
Vine. He becomes a congregation of
Moths amongst a tangle of cardigans
Whose silence resurrects the allusion
Of rain, now threads of light come in a can.
He becomes a lion tamer without
A lion, a re-arranger of chairs.
These bodies hover
about me where streets
used to be my own,
white whispers tearing
up the pages of
a life lived unsung.
Grant Tarbard is widely published. His first pamphlet Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.
