helen of troy speaks to bathsheba
David and Paris may speak
to gods, draw promises from divine
lips, win their prizes, barter with lives
not their own, but Bathsheba
do not hide yourself in his palace
rooms, do not wall yourself into court
yards, do not weep for them or
for you. We must be and be un-
I will stand on ramparts, cygnet wings
unfurling in the mind, you will bathe
on rooftops in the fireflung night, let
moonlight oil your hair.
Do not kneel on their broken glass, but dance
through it, bare feet; let your blood run
over the desert, to the sea
clytemnestra to sarah
Where is your vengeance, my sister?
How cold must your heart be how
cowed your desertsong soul how shattered
your spirit have you no gods
to call on or to curse, have you
no strength of your own no power
as multiple as stars in the sky
no will burning on summits of seas?
Though the hand of Artemis deliver my daughter;
Yahweh grant reprieve for your guiltless
son, the sins of their fathers
may not be forgiven. Sister, let the name
of your child be on your lips, let your redtent hands
be skillful-quick, fingers wrapped round the deliverance hilt
of your knife
M.H. Gomes is a university student who loves getting garden soil under her fingernails and Colorado’s red dirt on her hiking shoes. She was raised Catholic, and has been running from it ever since - though it’s easy to see how pieces of that narrative influence her creative works to this day. If you’re looking for her, she can usually be found either sitting up in a tree, or burrowed in some corner of a library surrounded by books and tea.