He has been so willing. She turns them over, she points to the wicker thatch of lines traversing the backs. This many, I ask? But she is in another city, she is searching for the echoing bleat of the sacrificed lamb. Achaemenides has heard that Odysseus is among the dead. He is so willing. He binds his body to the tree, lets his breath waste to nothing. But each time he is turned away by the ferrier of the river. H.D draws near. She tells me she cannot bear to see such letting of blood, such false smear. I look through tears and see her bare, clean hands, her white smock. I tell Achaemenides to stop. He was so willing, not because he didn’t know his own freedom. He looked to my poor, shriveled hands,. No, not for not knowing.
SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2020
Martin Conte
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