P O E M S

The Fisher King

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How strange, the Fisher King has seen the golden child All mythos says that now his wound will heal. And still the king is blind and whimpering Like a medieval saint Astonished at the lack of miracles. What goes around, comes around, the wheel Extracts our fate from what we’ve put in the grinder. Sometimes we have to take off our skin to be made whole. No poultice is to be made from the scab of an old wound. We have to shed our skins like summer snakes There will be nothing to hold us together. We are afraid our ropey muscles and blue veins Will fly off into the universe. Listen, it is secrecy, held like a weapon, Betrayal denied, and love thrown off the sled That flays our skin. When we step out of it, our selves Are whole again. © Nike, Sept. 1997

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