All I Ask The Gods

           All I ask the gods is that I should ask nothing of them
                                                              – Jose Saramago

I stand on summer’s beach, painting my sons’ young bodies
with lotion, their long, boated limbs, bone-tippled,
once smaller than toes, still unfolding symphony-like,
improvised and composed. I listen, ears tilted, the white
viscous liquid clinging to my fingers, to their skin.

These perfect bodies, reckless as Icarus, improbable
as seraphs, as tempting of hope and devotion, will play
in salty oceans, play on, twining primal melodies,
winging me, who will want to see, what next?
what next? winging me, me willingly, to my end.



Mary Buchinger