I am kind of obsessed with mythology right now, because I found a classicist who writes about the women in mythology in a feminist way, uncovering more of their dimension. It’s fascinating. So I had this idea to write a series of poems about these fiercesome women. Let me know what you think. My preference is to provide enough detail that you can figure out who the figure is without naming her. This one is about Clytemnestra. But let me know if you think I should turn up that card.

At the slight I am reminded
of daughters made voiceless in myths
and life, and sacrificed to a fickle godliness
to aid the causation of men
marching on a trophy city.
I am the mute daughter
and the vengeful mother.
Mythologies take their turn
in me.
Despots silence me
in the classroom, the office,
the street, the executive suite,
as if I can't recognize betrayal,
so much white in the room.
The lack of color distorts the facts.
Even the phone is bone.
A roar of wings drowns out
the true confessions of women.
Men prefer to fabricate
their own truth.
A daughter stricken mute,
struck down, collapses to her death,
an apocalypse of horror
in the velvet of her eyes. Once,
he called her his fawn, his yearling.
Hunted, stalked, slaughtered,
her body is dragged from the room
by a leg.
A mother stands sentry
for the war years, caressing the locket
with a tress of her daughter's hair.
The shadow of revenge
moves about the house
like an envoy. She fills
the vacuum of command
as if she is made for it,
weaving guile
and a straitjacket.
I am one of the furies
on the roof, dancing
my indignation. A daughter
shouldn't have to pay
with her promise, her long
limbs, her sunshine.
Fathers are a blunt
instrument. Mother,
pick up your ax.
A woman's patience
is centurion.