Achilles to Patroclus

deviKa gopaKumar CONTRIBUTOR

The ballads boast of my senseless rage, of wailing mothers and tortured breaths, of corpse-littered fields painted crimson red,

But the poets never mention you in their songs, my love, you, who held my trembling warrior heart in your hands, you, who would lull away the soldier’s angry wounds and murmur sweet words of home into their hair when they wept.

How could the ballads forget your gentle healer’s heart, and how you would softly kiss my blood-stained tears away?

Why do the gods not sing honeyed praises of your sun-kissed cheeks, your tender hands, your summertime smile, your bronze curls that glistened on my pillow, in the pale hours of the dawn our bitter kiss goodbye, as you marched into battle in my armour,

My jaan, my beloved, my philtatos, when you died you took everything that was good and innocent and beautiful with you, what I would not do for you, my most handsome love what I would not give, to be buried underneath the earth with you.

victoria bortolussi CONTRIBUTOR

I am not asking for much— A kiss on the cheek, a whisper of a secret. Perhaps I am the Devil’s daughter— Lust drunk and excruciating on all dimensions but one. I am demonic with angelic tendencies. I am feather light and pretty—the blue eyed kind. The favourite grandchild, if only because of my domesticity. Angel cake cupcakes and sprinkled vanilla frosting on Monday afternoons. A perfect wife for your only son. I give older men fuck eyes in libraries, Think of the curve of your mouth as the priest speaks at Sunday mass. I bring out the worst in you, if only because of my perpetual boredom. I promise to be good to you, but not for you.

I am duplicitous.