Afterimage

Out of the comforting realm of the normal
And into some sphere of unconscious perfection,
Embodying differences not of degree
But of kind, was I startled by – what? God knows what,

But a form far too tapered and tall to be human,
A face far too calm, a contemplative angel’s
Unearthly serenity. Only a unicorn
Turned to a woman would hope to look so,

Nothing born of a woman. Whatever made her
Didn’t make me, or any of us. And myself
With no tinge of desire, no more than I’d taste
For a statue or sunset, save one choking passion:

O God! Why couldn’t you make me this being
That drains all the once-vivid world of its color
And renders what’s left dull and used, gross and heavy
And dark, leaving longing alone in the night

Like a dream of some holy or unholy grail,
Like a vision – not peace, but a sword – edged in light?