I’m no Antigone. I possess none of her qualities.
She is royalty.
She unearths embattled
soil, sprinkles eternity.
Disgraced, her brother Polyneices lies bare,
bracing against the ravages of carrion birds.
In her haste, she forgets one thing—ritualized
libations. The liqueur—choai. Think ouzo for the ancients.
How do we cover our war dead?
A quick zip of vinyl, black
cloth, a makeshift shroud
with no imprint, no face.
A veil unfurls
over Kabul, Kandahar, the Korengal Valley.
Jimmy’s body, what remains of it anyway,
is scattered, blown to smithereens.
I return to Smithfield township and its peat beds, wade
knee-deep in his wellingtons,
dig earthworms, parched cornstalks, scattered seed corn.
I prepare the burial.
My brother Jimmy never understood the Greeks,
the endless drama, the tragedy.
I uncork my uncle’s moonshine, pour myself
a jigger of Jim Beam, and for Jimmy, a double—neat
How I savor the taste of anise.
Now I’m ready for sleep.
Originally published in Nimrod International Journal, vol. 56, no. 1 (Fall/Winter 2012)