I.
they say he was your friend,
a noble warrior and brother in arms,
and you spit the word philtatos at them
with the conviction of Zeus and the anguish of Daedalus.
(most beloved.)

II.
you drag the body of Hector through the streets
(a spectacle to see: bloodied, barren flesh defiling the walls of Troy)
as if it will quench the barbaric blood thirst that pluses through you,
that obscures your vision and chokes you.
as if it will bring him back.
(it won’t.)

III.
aristos achaion!
it is the redundant cry of desperate men,
princes and kings who are forced to watch you descend into madness,
to grasp onto a rotting corpse
and pray for death more times than your heart beats.
(when was the last time you prayed, Pelides?)

IV.
you know Paris has come for you.
you can feel it, the air electrified, as if trying to warn you;
as if you are still a dear prince, as if you are anything without him.
you hear the arrow sailing through open space,
and you think of knobby knees, of fig-stained lips,
of dark, wise eyes and olive skin.
(this, and this, and this.)