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The Cyclops, by Odilon Redon
Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood

Cyclops
You, going along the path,
mosquito-doped, with no moon, the flashlight
a single orange eye
 
unable to see what is beyond
the capsule of your dim
sight, what shape
 
contracts to a heart
with terror, bumps
among the leaves, what makes
a bristling noise like a fur throat
Is it true you do not wish to hurt them?
 
Is it true you have no fear?
Take off your shoes then,
let your eyes go bare,
swim in their darkness as in a river
 
do not disguise
yourself in armour.
 
They watch you from hiding:
you are a chemical
smell, a cold fire, you are
giant and indefinable
 
In their monstrous night
thick with possible claws
where danger is not knowing,
you are the hugest monster.

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