The Past

The past eats the way the sphinx could eat
the dust of those who did not know the answer
and those who did.  It feels as if the air
were thick with termites.  Then when he did answer
who walked on four legs, two, then three, in kind
the termites had not eaten through the cane
the old man bore.  So when Tiresias came
with cane and boy as guide, it did not seem
as if the aspirations of the stars
were still out to get him, as they were—
he who was on foot marked and was left
upon the mountain, staring into heaven
and fully unaware of how this fate had been awakened, become shapely, large.

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About the Author

Allan Johnston earned his M.A. in Creative Writing and his Ph.D. in English from the University of California, Davis. His poems have appeared in over sixty journals, including Poetry, Poetry East, Rattle, and Rhino. He has published three full-length poetry collections (Tasks of Survival, 1996; In a Window, 2018; Sable and Selected Poems, 2022) and three chapbooks (Northport, 2010; Departures, 2013; Contingencies, 2015).

A. Johnston
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