For the rape of Chryssipus, King Laius suffered.
The gods saw what he took -- a young boy’s chance
to play in the Nemean Games, to make his offerings
to Zeus, to win his wreath of wild celery leaves, advance
the Greek way: piety, honor, and strength. He raided
their vast heaven, not just a small boy’s frame. Their justice
was what Laius came to dread: a son that would take
his mother to bed, a champion of the gods, an Oedipus.
We called on the same gods on your behalf, asked
for their twisted best: disease like a Chimera to eat
your Laius piece by piece; a Harpie who might wrap
her tongue around his neck and play his game of breathing
and not-breathing that he made you play; Medusa’s curse in stone;
and a Golden Ram to put you back together bone by bone.
Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved.
Winner of the 2007 Spoon River Poetry Review's Editors' Prize. Judge's Review.
Featured in an upcoming issue of The Spoon River Poetry Review.