Antinous' Ring
Three Poems
by Eric Duncan
Person #5
You smelled of cotton candy and jasmine, but tasted of pennies connected to a 9-volt
battery.
(It wasn't exactly unpleasant.)
Your hands reminded me of petting a stingray—except for the calluses on your left
fingertips.
(Those you got from playing the fiddle.)
I'll never forget the way you bunched up, coiling like a spring whenever things got
tense—before striking cat-quick.
(Most people don’t know they are faster than snakes.)
When you yelled at me, it was shrill, the notes played from a recorder carved out of ice.
(I can still hear it now, echoing along my ear canal.)
The gash you left when you spread my ribs so you could see me laugh still won't heal.
(I've made a habit of picking at the stitches.)
When you called my work art, I developed an arrhythmia; it didn’t stop until the doctor reached in and massaged my heart.
(It still skips off beat from time to time—at the lingering thought of you.)
Again
“What were you like before the meds?”
Blood dripping, hands unwavering,
A well-worn, sneering smile,
Laughter strangled in my throat,
Tears that flowed.
Say it again,
“What were you like before the meds?”
Glorious in all the right ways;
Occasionally hypomanic,
Mostly severely depressed,
Not so ravenously starved.
Say it again,
“What were you like before the meds?”
Streaks of starlight in the void of space,
An easily missed wayward comet,
The blurred edges of crisp colors,
Gleaming oil on iridescent eyes.
Say it again,
“What were you like before the meds?”
Someone I've since forgotten,
White knuckled, nails lacerating flesh,
Prisoner of a malevolent mind
Who wanted to end so badly it burned.
And now,
“What are you like now, on the meds?”
Unmoored in the sea of humanity,
No highs or lows can rock me now
I am gyro stabilized,
Even keeled—but at what cost?
After Group Therapy
In private, I remember asking you,
“Why aren't you afraid to die?”
You said you were depressed,
That you were this close;
Fingers held a sliver apart,
Your hands shaking so bad
They connected briefly
Again and again.
It was tactless of me,
But I was a disaster then.
You were too,
But of a different nature.
That year, you would try to die
Too many times.
When we spoke again, you were caged
For your own protection.
You said that while you were inside,
You forgot the touch of the sun,
That you were at risk of drowning
In stark black night, held only at bay
By weak, fluorescent lights.
I wanted to tell you to persevere,
That one day soon,
The sky would be full of stars
Shining just for you.
But I never saw you again,
And neither did anyone else from group therapy.
For a brief time afterwards,
We would talk about you,
Wondering what happened.
I like to imagine that you’re in a better place.
Full Stop.
Eric Duncan is Canadian writer based in Hamilton, Ontario. A long time dabbler in the written word, he has only recently begun pursuing the craft seriously. A large aircraft engine mechanic by day, he spends his evenings reading and playing table top games with friends. He lives with a wonderful tabby named Sheeva.