ACHILLES HAD HIS HEEL
And still the arrows fly
in all directions.
No one is safe. The wind
has no armor.
Strength, beauty, valor,
whatever we find
and name perfection
is target to the eye.
Who is immune?
Either we aim—and miss,
or ourselves become
the victims hit.
Even a hermit,
locked inside his room,
remembers St. Francis
sang often out of tune.
We learn to die
from a thousand wounds,
each scarred inside
till the final failure.
Meanwhile we endure
and suffer with some pride
that we can be so human—
enough, if we must, to cry.
The point is inevitable.
Whether heel or head,
who is invulnerable
is already dead.