Myth
Bring up the yellow stallion,
wild and white-eyed.
Sunlight fires his shining flank
as he covers the trembling mare.
The Cretan queen – her breath is scent –
stands her ground,
widening her long witch eyes.
The horsemen shift and mutter,
“Shameless bitch. Cat on heat.
Foreign whore.”
Feast Day.
Remember God and open the throats
of our chosen lambs.
Let King Theseus pour the cup
of blood and ruby wine.
His queen walks with her women
beyond the myrtle, beyond the eyes
of the household gods.
A soldier rams his spear into the dirt
and pushes a woman against a wall.
The Cretan watches with her leopard eyes,
sweat pearls on her breast.
The queen walks with her women
down to the hidden grove
under the eyes of the piping god,
under the eyes of the dancing god.
Ah, shameless bitch. Cat on heat.
Foreign whore. She whispers – her breath is scent –
“Tell him I am sick and faint.
Tell Theseus’s son to come.”
And so he does - the fool,
the apple of his father’s eye
Apollo’s chosen one.
Feast day.
Evening clouds the quiet sea.
The temple snakes coil and drowse.
Already the moon stands in the sky
and the blood is dry on the alter stone.
A cry shivers in the gentle air,
“Rape. Rape.”
The long witch eyes bleed tears.
She eats the dirt at Theseus’s feet
and her hands claw at her breast
under the eyes of the household gods.
The king invokes the placid sea.
“Hear me, father, and let death
loose upon the shore.”
The ocean’s salt and shining back
Shifts and rolls in recognition.
A great bull shakes free of the surf.