The last modicum of my mind cries
for the olive trees. My fingernails belong in a laurel crown,
rest me on the head of an Olympian
and pray that I’m safe.
Pray that when all is done my bones will not make up the flutes and lyres but if they do, music will stain your hands when you so much as whisper my name.
With grapefruit eyes and mango washed skin and the discordant
voice of your personalized nine muses, I want to know that I will not be another #metoo.
Speak easy and rest softly my dear Lucretia, for when Zeus sidles up to my surly horse
with his blood stained erotica, I will denounce him for the heretic he is.
Helen of Troy was born from a swan, and when she was abandoned by Theseus, she ended the age of all heroes.
Like her, I will be your destruction. You can rape the clouds and the stars but unlike them
I am untouchable. I am the golden air that your plants
photosynthesize, I am a pillar in the Parthenon shrouded
by Athena’s blessing. And you are nameless. I am the daughter of a witch-queen, the god of death and I
share the same wings and hair cut.
You think you’re powerful? Because the solar system whispers your names? Power belongs to the hyacinth trees, and nature’s sweet release, and my hands when I topple the thrones you’ve stolen.
About the Author: Evelyn Caserta is a senior at Bryn Mawr College and is finishing up a degree in history and creative writing. While she focuses mostly on writing poetry that incorporates themes of history and mythology, Evelyn has also written a full length screenplay and is currently working on a novel draft. After graduation, Evelyn plans to work in journalism before going to grad school for writing.
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