Chryseis

Son of Atreus, your iron arms are warm
around my body, here on the soft skins
inside your luxurious tent. But it is not
Chryseis you hold, but Nemesis,
who weaves your moira with threads
of blood and pain.  You, whose daughter
writhed in ambition’s flames, shall burn
the city, fling sons of warriors from her
high walls, lead  wailing women to your
black ships. May your homecoming
be swift, and sweet as kisses
you wrench from the mouth of a captive
girl, whose silence is poison and gall,
dark germ of an illness that will swell
the tongues of your choking troops,
leave men and horses dying on the dusty plain.

[Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press has recently published two chapbooks: My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word and My Father Had Another Eye.]

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