6 Poems from Robin M Eames

By | 1 May 2019
Circe’s Potions

After the surgery
my father is different in inconsequential ways,
the same in all important respects.

His heartbeat is a little faster now
accommodating the unfamiliar valve, 
transplanted from a pig. He still eats bacon,

is still forgetful, still stubborn, still
thoughtless in the way he always was
still lacking in tact 

or meaningful filter, even more so
since the stroke, since he has become concentrated
inwards. For myself

we are considering a mechanical heart,
because I am younger, because it is expected to last
for longer, require more maintenance.

My diet, unlike his, will change
dramatically, excising alcohol, gaining
an additional regime of medication

to add to the handful of pills I toss back 
every morning. Unlike my father, a hybrid of human and swine,
I will be a hybrid of human and machine,

more like Hephaestus than like Circe’s
drunken visitors. Seething with honey-wine
the vengeful witch-queen turned men into pigs,

but their essential souls remained the same.
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