Size / / /

1.

When he's born, he is spotted

with rosettes

like a leper or feral cat

and then gradually,

over the course of several days

one by one

the rosettes open, blink, and take light.

Panoptes.

2.

As a boy, he's mocked by

the other children not only for

his size, but the contagion

of eyes that afflicts him.

During games of All-Hide,

he must cover himself with

a throw or be deemed a cheat

and beaten.

Alone, given sheep to tend,

he learns to communicate

secretly with the gods

by winking in code,

each orb a bright private

world in eclipse.

He never sleeps entirely,

but in ocular shifts,

shutting down an arm or leg,

dreaming in bittersweet fragments.

3.

When he comes of age, no

woman will bed him—

for what woman wishes to have

all of her secrets rendered

or not have private moments,

however brief?

A she-thing in a cave—

the bearer and mate of monsters,

claim the tale-tellers—briefly

assents to congress

once he plies her with wine,

but recoils in disgust when she sees

the extra eye on his pedicle.

As he strangles her, it weeps dryly.

4.

The queen of heaven gives him

a heifer to guard. Later (wink, wink),

when a stranger drops by,

he's so intrigued by the man's

winged feet, he's unable to look away

en masse and thus misses

the quicksilver flash of the sword

as it descends.

Just as well: Argus has spent

so many years in the sun,

a growing occultation—a film

of milk—clouds his eyes

and while a respite from the burden

of never-ending vigilance

is not unwelcome, at heart

he remains a voyeur. At least now

he'll never experience his greatest

fear: missing by an inopportune

turn of vision or centennial blink,

a single special moment—no matter

how dull or routine it might

eventually resolve.




Robert Borski works for a consortium of elves repairing shoes in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. You can read more of his work in our archives.
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