Iphigenia's Womb

Once I knew a girl
Whose porcelain upturned face
Beseeched the passing sky.

I burned her.
I had to – every ship failed to sail
Against Troy – the Gods-confounded winds beached each.
I, Agamemnon, made my choice.
And it was predictable. We men
Burn our beauty before us.

Her fair hair fell aside
Of her inquiring upturned look.
“Father,” she implored – just that one word:
“Father.”

The flames first lapped her ankles.
The silk of her gown grew black.
Her white arms lit up in frenzy.
Her white legs darkened into charcoal.
Iphigenia’s womb became a furnace.
Her hair was made a conflagration.
Her wide eyes were then made burning mirrors –
Crimson-gold to reflect the fire.
Her rose cheeks crisped into orange.
Her mouth was a bright, lean kiln
Where desperate whispers were forged.
“I love you,” she told me.
Flames raced to her lips.



(First published by Aphelion Magazine)

© Eric Robert Nolan 2014