Errant Fathers, Stupid Women
Don’t expect us to be grateful, Medea.
Nobody asked for your sacrifice.
Jason would have coped fine without the scattering of body parts.
That’s when he should have realized you’re a bitch,
thinking only of yourself
under the guise of undying love.
No wonder he found somebody new,
without the grandiloquent gestures.
He needed rest after his journey, bless him,
and all you can offer is barbaric revenge…
Agamemnon returned from Troy a hero,
while I, ‘his little Clyti’ struggled for so many years
alone yet not free
mourning the daughter he’d sacrificed for his mission, his ego.
[It’s all about ego in the end, you see.]
His spoils of war in the shape of a nubile wench:
his embarrassed smile barely veiling
the testosterone pride of middle-aged conquest.
‘You’d grown a little stale.
I’d forgotten how to let fun into my life.’
Was I really the only one to see the feet sodden with clay
on this former giant of a man?
How did he turn my children against me,
using absence to tenderise their flesh so willing
to prefer his account over mine?
In all discarded, bitter women
there’s a Jocasta lying in wait:
jewellery poised to maim errant fathers,
secretly rooting for the son to take over,unable to bear the loss of self.