Sandra Beasley reads
Another Failed Poem About the Greeks
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His sword dripped blood. His helmet gleamed. He dragged a Gorgon’s head behind him. As first dates go, this was problematic. He itched and fidgeted. He said Could I save something for you? But I was all out of maidens bound to rocks. So I took him on a roller coaster, wedging in next to his breastplated body in the little car. He put his arm around me, as the Greeks do. On the first dip he laughed. On the first drop he clutched my shoulder and screamed like a catamite. When we racheted to a full stop he said Again. We went on the Scrambler, the Apple Turnover, the Log Flume. We went on the Pirate Ship three times, swooshing forward, back, upside down, and he cried Aera! waving his sword, until the operator asked him to please keep all swords inside the car. He was a good sport, letting the drachmas fall out of his pockets; sparing the girl who spilled punch on his shield; waving as I rode the carousel’s hippogriff though it was a slow ride, and I made him hold my purse. On the way home he said We should do this again sometime, though we both knew it would never happen since he was Greek, of course, and dead, and somewhere a maiden rattled in her chains.