Helen of Troy patches her aloof heart with ancient texts,
the hungry light that existed in the world of Homer and Euripides,
measuring her visage by the love in dead poetry
the gleam of deceit from the curl of such red lips.
She threads between the fatal link of night and day,
the rush of an ocean unhinge the stars in her hands
undoing their hungry light for a new generation.
Medea is a lovelorn girl and a monster messiah,
a tornado that will shake the world beneath her feet.
She reigns with a crown of broken thorns
as Corinth wavered in the sands of tragedy and fell.
Amen to an afire heart
Running ablaze over the world she conquers,
seeped light outlining the leaves of Medea.
Cassandra still collects the truth like silver coins
and gives them to those in need,
never understanding the disbelief of her offerings.
Her heart on the table is unworthy if she doesn’t give it to a man.
She keeps her taunting smiles in her pockets,
dug her nails into the luxurious gilt of those truthful ‘lies’
and doesn’t let go.
Andromache loves with a maddening consciousness,
her nails dragging over the blaze of Hector’s glory
like the claws of a surging lioness whose fur
dusted with sparks of cutting jewels.
Her glinting teeth hurt from swelling kisses,
in the dark she held Hector’s lifeless body of decayed gold,
the yawning abyss and its silver echoes open in her heart.
— the chase of the world | (p.v)