An interdisciplinary journal about regions, places, and cultures of the US South and their global connections
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  • Another Failed Poem About the Greeks

    His sword dripped blood. His helmet gleamed.
    He dragged a Gorgon's head behind him.

    As first dates go, this was problematic.
    He itched and fidgeted. He said Could I

    save something for you? But I was all out
    of maidens bound to rocks. So I took him

    on a roller coaster, wedging in next to
    his breastplated body in the little car.

    He put his arm around me, as the Greeks do.
    On the first dip he laughed. On the first drop

    he clutched my shoulder and screamed like
    a catamite. When we ratcheted to a full stop

    he said Again. We went on the Scrambler,
    the Apple Turnover, the Log Flume.

    We went on the Pirate Ship three times,
    swooshing forward, back, upside down,

    and he cried Aera! waving his sword,
    until the operator asked him to please keep

    all swords inside the car. He was a good sport,
    letting the drachmas fall out of his pockets;

    sparing the girl who spilled punch on his shield;
    waving as I rode the carousel's hippogriff

    though it was a slow ride, and I made him
    hold my purse. On the way home

    he said We should do this again sometime
    though we both knew it would never happen

    since he was Greek, of course, and dead,
    and somewhere a maiden rattled in her chains.

     

    Published in I Was the Jukebox (New York: W.W. Norton, 2010).

    Published: 22 September 2011
    © 2011 Sandra Beasley and Southern Spaces