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.