Close Reading

(In memoriam, Delfin L. Tolentino, Jr.; 1950-2025)

"I want to speak about bodies changed 
into new forms."  
            ~ Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book 1


Reading myth, we learn about small 
oversights that tip the balance, seemingly 
inconsequential flaws that bring both hero 

and demi-god to their knees; how everything 
in excess, even what might be considered good, 
could bring about a downfall. To read 

the signs correctly, the context must be 
complete. For the wrong color of ship 
sail, the father throws himself 

into the sea, its depths both labyrinth 
and monster. The truth lies in the cracks 
of the wall, the crosshairs of the present. 

There, the hapless lovers lie under a mulberry 
tree whose fruits have turned from white to crimson.
And we are blind before we've even torn out our eyes. 

Or we push, with all earnestness, against 
the idea of a pre-ordained fate. If fate 
is real and we have no choice, we want to feel 

that we at least dared raise a voice, shake 
a fist against time's imperium. O, there's no 
mistaking its scythe— Because it sweeps close, 

we too shall sit and read to each other, eat 
and drink around the table with our friends, 
until the heart stops as if of its own accord.