iii.
If man should raise hands to breach the throat of his
father, feed him garlic. Who else but an imp should
eat it? It’s reaper-cruel. Dog food. The pagan’s
stinking rose. Hemlock in the belly, vipers in the
blood. Canidia, the Grey One, had a hand in this
dish, I’m sure. That other witch Medea poured
garlic over Jason to help him bind the fire-bulls; its
stink repelled their breath. She gave garlic to his
mistress, too, then flew away on her serpent-bird.
All women are best avenged with gifts. Neither the
dry southern cities nor sweaty Hercules, he of the
burned shoulders, know anything like this starry
steam. And should you desire another springtime
jest, dear Son of Kings, remember my countercurse:
“May all women oppose you with hands and push
you out of their beds.”
iv.
My quarrel is with you, [ ]. Even the wolves
and lambs realize what’s happened. They’ve seen the
way you measure the sacred—twice with three
yards of silk cut for a gown. You’re proud to walk
with money, but luck doesn’t change the race. I hear
the voices along the road:
“First he cut the whips from the politicians’ hands,
but now he has a thousand acres for others to plow?
His ponies clog the roads, yet he sits like an
emperor enthroned? Disgusting. What’s the use of
so many ships, heavy things built on slaves’ hands
and thieves’ mouths, if he’s chosen to lead?”
ix.
When will we, dear Son of Kings, feast in your
home and drink the finest wines to Caesar’s
victories? When shall it please Jupiter to let me
bathe in flute and lyre, their Italian and Greek
melodies mixing? As of late, the enemy captain,
claiming Neptune’s blessing, flees on burning ships.
He’s threatened the city with chains torn from
faithless slaves, the only men who’d call him friend.
And some sad soldier—his descendants will strike
his name—will carry the trenches for a skinny
woman and serve wrinkled eunuchs. I’m sure
the sun itself will refuse to shine on his canopy.
And here, two thousand horses turn. And here, French
masters sing Caesar’s name. And here, hostile ships
veer left, surrounded by harbor. Triumph, are you
waiting for oxen, for an untouched golden car?
Triumph, what of our peer lost to the African king?
That ancient general whose power built his tomb?
Our enemy, defeated on land and sea, dyes his
purple curtains black. Hangs them in his porthole as
he flees wherever the winds take him—to the
Hundred Cities or to opposing shores. And here,
boy, bring cups for wine. I don’t care where it’s
from if it’s good. May my fear of Caesar’s business
be lost in wine’s sweet flow.
T.A. Noonan is the author of several books and chapbooks, most recently The Midway Iterations (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2015) and The Ep[is]odes: a reformulation of Horace (Noctuary Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in Reunion: The Dallas Review, Menacing Hedge, LIT, West Wind Review, Ninth Letter, Phoebe, and others. A weightlifter, artist, teacher, priestess, and all-around woman of action, she is an artist-in-residence at Firefly Farms, home of the Sundress Academy for the Arts, and the Vice President/Associate Editor of Sundress Publications.
