I was running—
water on my left,
night on my right.
I was dreaming of happiness.
The light of dawn
rose into the sky—
the color of blood.
I heard the sirens wailing.
I remembered women
stranded on islands
calling sailors to be their lovers.
But those men died in the waves.
Their bodies were broken
on the rocks
and torn apart in the siren-song.
The city is like that, too.
Wise-men plug their ears
with wax from the honey-comb
and sail on.
Even Odysseus barely survived.
But in Boston, a mother is cradling
her injured daughter in her arms,
praying for death to pass by.
Who can live in a world-gone-mad?
Jane Beal
THE POETRY PLACE 