Clytemnestra Confesses To Killing Agamemnon

           A jury of 12 women finds she acted in self-defense

 

Of course I killed the Achaean.

He sacrificed our daughter. Iphigenia

moves through me, as a memory through muscle

I remember sometimes my legs.

My legs belonged to a dancer, a ballerina of certain

circus acclaim, pointing and pirouetting

on an elephant’s seductive back.

The poster hangs still on my wall

painted in red and yellow,

daring black lines.

 

Agamemnon killed Iphigenia, you know,

for a wind whistling from her lungs.

I could have whistled for his fleet, air rushing

from my lungs as I fell and kept falling.

I remember my left thigh near the hip

broken in a field of horses’ hooves

like thunder gods. I could’ve whistled

but for the dry grass yellow with August.

 

Then there was Cassandra.

I remember how important eyelids were,

blinking away blood arcing from my ax,

a red rainbow (spatter patterns, the detectives said.)

Iphigenia moves through my womb again,

wraps her legs to climb the soft tissue,

whistles my heart.

 

Copyright © 2013 Iris Gribble-Neal.

Iris Gribble-Neal retains all rights to this work, granting Fickle Muses one-time, non-exclusive electronic publication rights. Please contact the creator to request permission for reprints or other uses of this work.

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