Tiresias Abandons His Pretense

No one ever gets the upper hand, and my palms
swapped flesh for granite and the hard bark

of a tree that’s so old it hurts to carve your
name in the leaves. I lie—the upper hand

has always been mine, now I’m trying to stop
slapping the pavement till a volcano shoulders

through a pothole. Because I can bear no sacrifice, I’ll
continue talking. Never mistake me for a mule carrying

twice its weight in bleached skulls. I’m all donkey,
with only my own skeleton rattling off excuses inside

of me, I donkey down the canyon side, I donkey
down 42nd street towards a lowering sun all full

of beeswax and antivenin waiting for me to reach into my
pocket, like an acorn waits to grow up and topple something.