Diomedes

Diomedes

Philoctetes lost in exile, marooned on Lemnos. He had such a love
for bloodshed.
Death in war is quick,
    in our dreams he imagined his head removed
    by one swing of a mighty weapon
    wielded by a great Trojan hero.
        Hector is dead.

Achilles was killed by poison, wasn’t he? Perhaps
the greatest warriors are fated to slow and toxic deaths,
retribution for a life spent so adeptly taking the lives
    of others.
A snake bite was enough; poor Philoctetes,
    left behind.

It did not take the body, instead it stole away with his soul.

Left because of throbbing foot, no ointment.
    You'll be back,
    come to get my bow; I had sympathy for Heracles.
Poor Heracles
dying demi-man, the shirt of Nessus
burnt and poisoned him, carelessly
but quietly removing his flesh. He was driven mad
by the bloodthirsty gods, and killed his own
children, Chalkoarai. In the end
    he stood upon the funeral pyre and screamed
    for just one brave man. I lit the fire
    that relieved his agony,     and he became my god.

They’ll come back for me. Odysseus
would leave behind a wounded friend. He
was no brave man; the gods will not
                                           favor him.

Penelope, wait not
    for a man so cruel as take from a dying man
his pride, leave him behind with no glory, let him
perish alone and aching, growing old. Warriors
should not live to middle age. I have lost
                                                     my youth to Lemnos.

What does a war need but foolhardy youths and constant lovers?

Let me go to die at war. There is nothing
more noble than the passion
to perish in blood, fighting
for beauty, the beauty of a stolen woman, doubtlessly ravaged
and homesick. We are all destined to have bodies
    ravaged and a longing for home that aches
        like a toxic arrow in the foot. And I am left

                                               alone.