Oh waters
that I shall never see --
the gleaming eye, crystalline iris --
the two great kings, the branded helots --
square monuments and grey olive leaves
the dry heat stills my bones.
My cracking knees pin my felt cloak
as I crouch near a boulder from the sun,
much the dawdling shepherd.
Light stench of parched earth...
Zeus the
betrayer!
How have I savaged thee?
My heart
crushes itself.
My nails scrape against my brandished scars --
my right hand twitches as I remember...
How could I count the bodies --
puffed faces, bloated guts,
roasting in the sky’s bizarre flame?
But I did find my friend,
and washed his shit smeared thighs.
I brushed the horse hairs on his helmet.
His broken spear lays next to him,
and now he strides immortal in Attic stone.
Harsh Rhetra,
I cannot equal thee!
Tyrtaeus, your lost words would silence me.
Listen! The rivulets rile the shore,
the slight collapsing crush snapping
like blood-bubbles out a skewered trachea.
No walls, not for Dorian hegemons...
My index
tip retraces the protruding lip
of my dull brown water cup.
How can I care?
As we pass
from anxiety to regret,
so the Eurotas scars the plain.
I remember
too, his body glowed
the olive oil and clay dust gleamed
in victorious light at Delphi--
he shone like Apollo! Delight!
His spirit leapt to the cheering mass
as his Doric rival writhed in his
dark and broken fingered shame.
How can I cease to care?
Though the
rill rends dry,
the naked shores remain.
