Golden Fleece! The Golden Fleece!
'Get over it.
Get some sheep,' I told him,
dismantling my tongue
and laying the pieces out on the Aegean marble table. Already,
we had wasted
10 years. Already, thousands had died
at my hands.
Daily, Dread & Co.
kept moving all our candy-cane striped furniture
off the ship.
Dead squirrels kept calling out to me from beneath the frozen tundra, advertising
That he had a silver-plated fork for
was our gravest misfortune. I wrote to Stalin, 'Over the dead sea, the
shredded into holes
that I kept falling through.'
In Mongolia, snow-blind, I became lost
in a maze of white.
(The walls of the maze were chock full of miraculous creatures.
In Sparta, I ate a piece of black licorice,
and it turned into a larva. At an oracle in Ethiopia, a golden mask
told me to take up knitting.
I killed our children.
It kindled his desire.
I said, Back, hornet! I am off
the scantily clad snow-angels!
Starting to cry, I said,
will lick each of
my blinding transgressions clean.
One particular playbill for Euripides’
Medea reads: "Come see the witch! The murderer of her own children!
Spurned for a younger woman, she uses black sorcery to kill her!
As has my dear friend of late. This poem
speaks through/for her.