By Richard Stimac
Ten years of drought. The land, dry like the skin
of an old queen who overlived his reign,
sucks the discharge from the earth, a stale plain
of snags and browned grass. The river grows thin.
Near the Greek camp, at the mouth, a wild grin
scars Achilles face. His pleasure, his pain,
he washes the penetrating stain
from his lover’s body. He would begin
killing again. But the sea does not care.
The salty spume encroaches in the river’s
mouth. The freshwater current, not to gag,
pulls itself upstream. The bone-dry bank quivers.
Achilles, in mourning, cuts his red hair,
ashes his face, wails like an ancient hag.
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Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.
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