i. when my blood spilled down the temple steps, were you glad?
when my wedding robes dripped scarlet, did you regret it, or did you smile,
as the beat of my heart soared and sputtered and then
stopped? as i bled out on your altar stone?
was it worth it?

ii. when your poets told my mother i died willingly, did you force yourself into believing it?
old man, when they said a deer was sent to take my place, did you remember
the way i bled out in front of you, or did you imagine
a doe’s eyes and hooves made for running?
did you imagine anything at all?

iii. when you won your war, did you think of me then?
when the streets filled with crimson, heavy as monsoon rain, did you
think of my sacrifice, my life, laid down
at your feet? did your men hold a vigil?
do you even remember?

iv. father, i do. father, i remember everything.
father, i remember the way my eyes felt heavier with each wine-red drop.
i remember the way your armies cheered as i lay dying,
as the wind lifted the sails of your ships, and i was forgotten.
father, i did not die willingly.
father, the dead do not forget.
father, i am waiting.

iphigenia, vengeful | m.c.p