top of page

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.

Myth: Text
bottom of page