First Words from Enkidu by Robin Scofield Me, a man, with animal skin, I say this sunrise speech. Goddess or prostitute not much fall-off squat across sulfur springs, ledged on a crag, no friendly god nearby. Birds startle when toads croak in their northern ear. Third eye-lid opens, bodies soft jewels, the splendid robes of brides. When I hid in the well, I had not seen a woman. A king in a tower stood. I tell how he broke from the sea when the springs sputtered, and he awakens for questioning. I reform Gilgamesh as a priest in wolf’s clothing. Rain tore what he said before he tumbled into a ravine in my ear, my sacred cave. We fought like bears for seven nights, ready to start again. He stayed on me hard. After they had trimmed me all over, licked and bathed me, I raced the town folk to the watering hole. We drank and shook our heads. I, Enkidu, said, Take me to her.
Robin Scofield, author of And the Ass Saw the Angel and Sunflower Cantos (Mouthfeel Press), is bipolar and has poems appearing or forthcoming in The Cimarron Review, descant, and the Lummox Anthology #6. She is poetry editor of BorderSenses and writes with the Tumblewords Project in El Paso.