My Narcissus

My narcissus was a gift, a raw round heart encased in paper brown skin
that flaked off in my hands.  He slept in my palm, nestled into the dark
space as my thumb closed around him.

After I put him into his bed, covered with cold earth, I waited, and he opened his fist,
reached up through the soil with his three fingered hand.

You know the rest of the story, how he became lost in himself, drowned himself
in his idea of himself.

All that’s left now is his withered body, cut off, lying in the dirt, turning to dirt, the
snow slowly burying him.  But his heart, the one I loved first, beats underground.

Kris Bigalk’s second collection, Enough, traces the interplay between the experience of codependency and the myths of Echo and Narcissus. Lyrical, raw, and honest, these poems invite us to consider what it means to be satisfied, how to make peace with each other and ourselves, and when enough is enough.