I’d hoped he and his brute-father would kill
each other, thus leave the path clear for me
to wed the Queen, and who knows what mishap
might free me to take a young, nubile wife.
But now that Telemachus has banished
his battle-hard sire, the whelp’s exposed:
the old man the only one who could string
the great bow that slaughtered all the Suitors,
and despite his frothing like a mad bear—
guilt for killing a small boy on the night
Troy was won—commoners worshipped the souse.
So Telemachus has lost a fighting arm
and the goodwill of those who should have been
his fiercest allies; thus fig-ripe to fall,
except he’s ordered me to search out
and bring Odysseus home, to assuage
the imp’s fear of the Furies. And if dead,
to find and kill the two wharf scum he hired
to make sure his father never returned,
so he’s outflanked me, or Penelope has.
I’ll make sure we’ll never find the old coot
or those two drunken, murderous vermin,
but we will raid booty-fat coastal cities
and sail back with honors and glory enough
to make the island forget our late king,
who returned to Ithaca an old beggar,
guilt-mad for slaughtering that tiny boy.
I’d have slain the brat too, but I’d not
tell the tale over and over, as if driven
by a stinging gnat sent by Father Zeus.
A hero forgets the lives he snuffs out.
What better way to show love of the gods.
