by Richard Stimac

I’m too weak to visit my mother’s grave.
The neatly set rows of white marble stone
remind me too much of hydra’s teeth sown
in unplowed fields. I pretended to rave,
rent my himation, grovel like a slave,
or a Pythia, when, in a low moan,
mumbles riddles with answers only known
by God. The women told me to be brave,
to know that in time, the pain and grief
would end, as if a shadow, regret trailed
us, like Furies. Hecuba railed
against men: “It’s what they do. They, they, they . . .
“Vultures. Jackels. What are we, tell me, pray?”
When she died, I felt eternal relief.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), over forty poems, nearly two-dozen flash fiction, and several scripts. "Cressida" is part of a chapbook titled Trojan Woman.