iphigenia, dance in the hills.
feel every blade of grass beneath your little feet,
breathe until your ribs are swollen with the sea,
count down the stars until aquarius let go of night-time and
the day looms on the dark of your city.
cassandra, fill your mouth with wonder.
bite down on fruit so your mouth paints acrylic sweet,
read the windrush river until the eddies cool your tongue,
go to sleep with your spine to the east,
he does not deserve your sunrise.
antigone, your mournings stink of jewel and hemp.
quilt your face in wire and mesh,
loop hands with your lifeblood and let him run dry,
dress all in white for a guilty funeral,
the innocent are not buried at all.
polyxena, spend one last night with your mother.
whisper stories of eurydice and orpheus, the turning and the lost,
split apples together to share in the dark,
swallow them whole so when they place you on the altar
you shall spill rivered fruits.