Son of Venus

You left like Aeneas, in a hurry:
tossed your swords and your gods into a suitcase,
made your getaway giggling like a fiend
to see me finally in the middle distance, and receding.
--a time-honored trick, but no epic records your bold departure,
and no bard seals me to this one page.
As the Trojan woman returned to him in sleep, twice
a ghost and grayer than cinders
he left her to swallow,
so shall I reenter the tale,
dark like desires you left me to purge and waiting,
as always, when you awake.
Tell your story on foreign shores,
but keep your gods about you:
swords are weak against a myth,
breathing.

Karin Cole