Polyphemus' Plea

Sherrel McLafferty

Don’t tell my father I was sleeping
when you splintered my eye blind.

That sheep-sized men pressed the wood
into my iris and I was so unloved no one

would help. Don’t tell him that my grimace
was so abhorrently toothful you retell me

as a monster. That shadow puppets on a ship’s
wall become fisted blobs to show my clumsiness.

Odysseus, did you know my name
means song and yet I wasn’t born a siren?

When my mouth opens, the ocean rolls
its waves away, no matter the placement

of the moon, her glowing shine as beautiful
as a mother. I’m sure she has always shined

on you and your flesh destined for stars,
for legend. Transfiguration awaits all great men,

speaks their lives into a story as rich as bread.
Be fair with my portrayal in it. Say I was

the only giant with a name you sang into a bottle.
Whose herd was better fed and who unleashed

a laugh so jovial the fire blew out like a wish.
Say if I were your son, we would have shared

more than a meal, more than a few dead men.
Say if you were my father, the wine we drank

would have been my first taste, celebrating
a war we fought together and journey home.

When hands reach for me, they would latch
my shoulder in a grip of pride. That’s something

I’ve always wanted, a hand as strong as iron
embracing me fully, softening for me alone.

Sherrel McLafferty is a multi-genre writer who resides in Bowling Green, Ohio. Her work explores the internal life of herself, characters, and persona with a focus on image. To read or learn more, please visit her website at sherrelmclafferty.com.