Antigone Going
I am impatient for these men
to roll their stone over my tomb. Their wives
made it cozy, or tried, with stacks of pita, cheap amphoras
filled with wine, olives. They didn't leave room for late-night cravings. That's
fine, just as well. I sit and pick my fingernails clean.
The dirt falls on my feet. I count the inches
of light the stone is carving away. These
are their inches, I do not need the inches of men more,
more than I need a half-inch of dirt over my brother.
I pick the dirt out of my thumbnail and sprinkle it on my foot.
The men grunt above me, behind me, somewhere between
my legs and ears, as they and their stone whittle away
my grief from their cows, wars, dependable wives.
That's fine. Just as well. I see a sliver of foot.
It disappears. They have finished. They will not
kill me, can not satisfy me like that. I can not
hear the rasp of their relief as they wipe foreheads
clean of my sweaty solemnity. I rip my own dress
and braid it like a daughter's hair--it's too white, too
dirty, smells too much like a rotting brother,
but I twist it, wring it into a beautiful noose.
No comments:
Post a Comment