Five ships, ten armed oarsmen each; I’ve set traps
all over the island, hidden weapons,
and sent Axia and Miletes to hide
in a mountain cave, so Polynides
can’t dangle them as bait, to force me back
to Ithaca, and collect a fat fee
from my son Telemachus, who, it seems,
now regrets sending me into exile
with the two murderous wharf rats I killed,
though if I were my boy, I’d have done the same
to an old man made loudly, drunkenly mad
by all the dead men I’d sent over Styx,
but most, I’m haunted by the harmless boy
I thoughtlessly slew the night we sacked Troy
Part of me pities Telemachus, champing
like a stallion to rule, but part of me
dreams of revenge on my whelp, though I’ve no
desire to see Ithaca again, nothing
but a nest of asps. Let me be thought dead.
Well, here’s Polynides, with two armed men,
the rest waiting on the strand, my odds better,
if it comes to blood, and I fear it will:
that fat, greedy bastard thinking it’s simpler
to kill me quickly and claim I’d vanished
like all the warriors who died at Troy,
than try to drag me back to Ithaca,
when what he really wants is to oust my son,
marry Penelope, and rule as king.
“Polynides, you honor my poor hut
with your esteemed presence,” (you scheming shit).
He smiles unctuously as a jug of tainted
olive oil, thinking I’ll be easy to kill.
