My Last Lover

I think that poor Porphyria

Hath had her blame enough elsewhere

And so, my dear Cytherea,

I've taken extra special care

To shift the blame for you to bare.

Now as Hephaestus, that's my role,

I hatched a plan to catch the thief,

And forthwith to my smithy stole

To smelt a brazen net motif

And thereby grant myself relief.

Within that cave of forges wrought,

I called upon the Cyclops aid

And with gold maids whom gods had taught

Began, and other work forbade:

A hero's arms were to be made.

It took sometime to dig the hole.

I dug it by that old pear tree

Among whose leaves you oft would stroll

To set your struggling passion free,

I dug it deep enough for three.

And as the rain set in tonight,

The sullen wind came out to play.

They spattered me with all their spite

As if my plan they would betray

By all the mud in the hallway.

But with this muddy trail's begun

The final stanza I shall write

So let the mud be like the sun,

Old Helios, that kindly light,

To lead all here, for I invite

With bitter pen and bloody hands,

From now into eternity,

The nymphs and satyrs of all lands,

The gods and all the world to see

Me grant you immortality,

The gift for which Achilles died,

Preferring glory over life.

I think it was his selfish pride

That ere the arrow, plunged a knife

Into his heart. But now, dear wife,

Tonight I watched as Somnus crept

Into our room to pay his debt,

Then silently, as you both slept,

Beside the bed myself I set

And wrapped you in my brazen net.

So do not stir, but lie quite still

And feel my knife so gently pressed

And set with long awaited skill

Against your supple skin and breast,

The blade still warm from its last quest -

For Ares' blood still soaks the blade

And drips upon your precious skin,

While lifelessly, his debt now paid,

Beside you, flowing from within,

His blood engulfs the sheets in sin.

I slip the covers from the bed

And run my fingers through your hair.

A tear upon your cheek is shed,

Your clothes lay scattered everywhere

And perfume floats upon the air.

In this last moment, let us stay

Engraven by my poetry.

Since I was naked for a day,

Thus shall it be eternally:

Your naked skin, this knife, and me.

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Copyright © 2010 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved