I wonder what it took to stay the terrible
moment of doubt, and so do the gods’ bidding?
Too many instances of sacrifice in mythology,
each a dagger entering history in the guise
of duty. But surely there was doubt? Some
small tremor before the winds of prophecy
named one daughter instead of another,
thrust her neck on a stone altar? Torn
sails mended, boats sailed through pliant
waters as if thresholds were always meant
to be marked with blood. Centuries later,
we are still saying war is the circumstance
that justifies murder. Cities burn, seas turn
their dark into a wine that erases memory.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
