Stories You Shouldn't Believe
She was my friend's wife.
I came in disguise,
and when the Trojan broke open
there was no way to go home.
Like those before, she ate the fruit.
I planted six seeds deep within, and waited
for the night to make them sprout.
Forgetting is a descent
on crumbling steps;
Green smoke stains
my breath like wet leaves. I swallow
memory and starve.
The woman tells us men are pigs,
and so they are,
and I follow them
to my wife's table in disguise.
She was my friend's wife.
I came in disguise,
and when the Trojan broke open
there was no way to go home.
Like those before, she ate the fruit.
I planted six seeds deep within, and waited
for the night to make them sprout.
Forgetting is a descent
on crumbling steps;
Green smoke stains
my breath like wet leaves. I swallow
memory and starve.
The woman tells us men are pigs,
and so they are,
and I follow them
to my wife's table in disguise.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson