for patroclus

vi

THE DAY I BETRAYED YOU

i can see so vividly
the contortion of your face,
the skin of honey
blackening by the shadows cast
by the wicked sun, who,
over skyros, cackled in glee
at the waters distressed,
and mothers interest in vain,
for my tumbling skirts
of chiffon silks and flappy things
straddled the curve of my
shoulder, letting loose the
kiss of purple and stain so
permanent—

i could see that,
for a second,
i had lost you.

"patroclus,"
i spoke, the edge so
keen like tumbled weeds;
it collapsed into your pretty
heart and poured black
ink across those eyes of gold:
they fell like the rain in the midst
of a storm, no longer luminous,
no longer warm like honey—
no, for they held some iciness,
the frosting against the sea,
a wind in the storm, sending
boats ashore.

you turned away.
i ran for you.

i was not fast enough.

mothers facade lapped at my
legs and sewed itself into my calves
which had abandoned my form of
grace and greeks and resembled
despair, distress, discomfort—
for i did not like it, my patroclus,
i did not like a second, a moment,
a breath of it: it was not you, she knew
not the rhythm, not my body, not my lips,
not the stars and clouds and heavenly
sins we whispered and shared.
we made no vows, made no promises,
made no words of pleasure,
no sounds of passion—
it was mute. it was silent.

i could hear the waves upon the
shore.

"patroclus, please."

i am a beggar at your feet,
your honey hair tangled upon
mine, tainted with the moon which
you hated so well—your eyes of
ice melted, slowly, warming again:
cheeks soft and youthful and oh!
so you: how i missed you, my patroclus,
my lover, my heart, my sun, my whole.
"my mother said she would tell you
where i was if i went to skyros
and loved deidamia," i spoke so
shyly, as though i was a boy again:
a flower in my hand as we sit
on the shore of phthia;
but we are grown, adults
blossoming, and the seed that was
sewn into the roots of my heart
seemed now to be pounding with
anticipation.

"you did it for nothing."
was all you said. "your father
told me where you were."

and even though you looked
at me as you always did—
with heart, with wit, with devotion—
i could hear the words tumbling
from your lips as ours hugged one
another, as the taste of honey
seeped into the corners of my
mortal mouth:

you're too naive.

i hated myself that day, more than i ever hated hector.