Loving that man was a way of hating God:
useless, and no sense of privacy.
The fates fell, like cats tumbling
down the palace stairs, and soon I fell—
we all fell—so many dry men in Thebes.
Piece by piece was miscast, dissembled:
the crossroads at midnight, men’s bones
shattered against fire-creased iron.
Crowned triumphant, he solved riddles,
told lies, made much of love and daughters.
He of course will spare them the knife.
Yet he never told me how the history