“I never did like Narcissus,” he says,
though I hadn’t asked for his opinion.
“Narcissus? Why not?” I ask.
“It is such a presumptuous flower,
So simple – banal really –
yet it pops up first thing in the spring
as though the world has been awaiting it
“All winter? Perhaps so,” I say.
“It is so beautiful and colorful
and a refreshing change from the ugly winter snow.”
“You know what I think?” he asks.
I don’t know, and I don’t ask.
He tells me anyway.
“I think these narcissus flowers bloom early
just so they can admire their reflections in the melting snow.”
“The melting snow,” I say. “I don’t care. I love them.”
I reach down to pick one of the flowers,
but it won’t come loose of the plant.
I pull harder. It still refuses to budge.
“See that?” he says.
“Narcissus won’t even let go of a bloom.
He wants to keep all the beauty for himself.”
“For himself…” I muse.
I begin to feel faint.
I feel as though I am disappearing.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“Going somewhere. Yes… somewhere… somewhere…”
“Say, I didn’t catch your name,” he calls after me.
“Name? Echo. Echo. Echo.”
“Nice talking with you, Echo.
My name is Nemesis.”
Nemesis. Nemesis. Nemesis.
NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 21: Write a poem that plays with the myth of Narcissus in some way.