The Second Slaughter
Achilles slays the man who slew his friend, pierces the corpse
behind the heels and drags it
behind his chariot like the cans that trail
a bride and groom. Then he lays out
a banquet for his men, oxen and goats
and pigs and sheep; the soldiers eat
until a greasy moonbeam lights their beards.
The first slaughter is for victory, but the second slaughter is for grief—
in the morning more animals must be killed
for burning with the body of the friend. But Achilles finds
no consolation in the hiss and crackle of their fat;
not even heaving four stallions on the pyre
can lift the ballast of his sorrow.
And here I turn my back on the epic hero—the one who slits
the throats of his friend’s dogs,
killing what the loved one loved
to reverse the polarity of grief. Let him repent
by vanishing from my concern
after he throws the dogs onto the fire.
The singed fur makes the air too difficult to breathe.
When the oil wells of Persia burned I did not weep
until I heard about the birds, the long-legged ones especially
which I imagined to be scarlet, with crests like egrets
and tails like peacocks, covered in tar
weighting the feathers they dragged through black shallows
at the rim of the marsh. But once
I told this to a man who said I was inhuman, for giving animals
my first lament. So now I guard
my inhumanity like the jackal
who appears behind the army base at dusk,
come there for scraps with his head lowered
in a posture that looks like appeasement
though it is not.
Lucia Perillo
On the Spectrum of Possible Deaths
Copper Canyon Press
Saturday, Ocean Creek
by Fred D’Aguiar
Sometimes the morning shakes itself from its moorings
To this world and lifts skywards with a fighter jet’s roar,
Everyone lucky enough to be up and about looks to the east
But the sound follows idly a much faster comet too quick
For lazy eyes, so we ink in a sleek cross with exhausts
And settle for sound in place of sight for peace of mind.
A morning without wings, or adrift on one wing-beat,
Skimming waves for their fumes and saltlick,
That’s gulls, waves, and wind, sharpening pines.
That’s me happy to see that I am nowhere to be found,
Thrilled to be lost at last in things outside of myself
Until I belong to a world that ignores my footprint:
That pine umbrella, a flock, a handclap away from liftoff;
The pike of a heron, on one pirate-foot, stalking its reflection.
AUBADE by Cheri L. Roberts
for K.A.
She will remember dark eyes
the scruff to his cheeks, slender arms and legs
a tattoo on his thigh, the sun
in all its passion, deep blue, pale flesh at the center
how the sound of her name was a new word
from his mouth
She will remember the scent of leather and sweet musk
the salt of his skin, his hand against her thigh
how she saw, more than heard him moan
the slight up-movement of his adams apple
the skin on his throat tight around it, his head tossed back
how he tasted his own passion, spilled on her skin
She will remember that he called her Goddess
the circle of his arms in the dark, the hum of the air conditioner
the sudden one-ness of a Vermont hotel room
her blossoming there in the comfortable blur of night
the sweetness of his mouth, the kiss, the drifting off
She will remember the morning
alcohol and music worn away to a dull headache
the shade opened, the light turned on
how he had already dressed
but found her, naked under the sheet
his soft voice
pressed into her neck,
and his whisper
that he wanted her
Again
—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004
