achilles, achilles

achilles, achilles

why do you scream? 

as the crowd turns away 

with deaf ears, 

and the one who promised

is gone--

you let red eyes feast on 

what remains of the body, 

his blood 

anointing your lips

like nectar 

from the boyish summers

war left behind. 

achilles, achilles, 

why do you cry? 

the rot in your heart 

has crept

like moss over stones, 

from heart to ankle--

and with bruised hands,

you rouse their bodies, 

scattering the flies

who now grovel

for your flesh instead.

achilles, achilles,

tell me, swift-footed, 

without your bronze shell, 

as you look 

from the tender grave 

to the man 

whose feet you pierced,

can you still discern

beloved from foe--    

or their faces, 

dirt-streaked and beaten, 

from your own?