Greek Myths are Overrated, Murderer, Cloudy with a Chance of Dementia
By Claire Scott
Greek Myths Are Overrated
Aren’t you sick of Greek myths? So removed
from reality. Sick of Oedipus killing his father again
and again on his way to Thebes. Sick of therapists
telling us we want to marry our mother, therapists
who obviously have never met our mother.
What of Odysseus killing the suitors, all bloody 108
of them, manipulated by Penelope weaving her ridiculous
shroud to look like a loyal wife. But sleeping with Telemachus.
Or Heracles slaughtering lions and hydras, bulls and boars.
Doesn’t he have anything better to do? We yawn.
But here’s the thing. We really do need you Ariadne.
Are you still sleeping on Naxos, dreaming of Theseus
who left you behind, who never really cared,
more concerned with the bloody head of the Minotaur
tucked under his shoulder, hastening back to Athens,
too stuffed with heady success to change the sail,
to think of his father, to think of you who risked your life.
Wake Ariadne! We have lost the red thread to guide us,
the ball of yarn that leads out of the labyrinth
of lies, deception, duplicity and betrayal.
Let us stumble toward dawn’s rising light,
our tangled hearts unknotting.
Murderer
Warning: this poem received an R rating
I am a murderer
yes, that’s right a murderer
I murdered my childhood
my perfectly good childhood
with plenty of Santas and tooth fairies
birthday presents piled to the ceiling
ballet, Brownies, banjo, basketball
my mother cheerfully driving
I have mangled and mutilated it into a time
of abuse, indifference and neglect
to grab some attention
so people feel sorry for me
poor me with an alcoholic mother
who was completely crazy
who rarely made supper, us kids opening cans
of smelly tuna and Campbell’s tomato soup
poor me whose uncle had wandering hands
and stank of cigarettes, who my mother
allowed to take me on Sundays after church
although she knew
I have spent thousands of dollars
and thousands of hours lying on a lumpy couch
entertaining my therapist
with hair-raising stories
of knives and enemas and ambulances
nightmares of midnight hands and locked closets
that couldn’t possibly be true
could they?
Partly Cloudy With a Chance of Dementia
My daughter says my mind is sliding
words lost at sea, snagged in seaweed
tangled in silt
the round thing you put your supper on
I have post its on my fuzzy night shoes
my favorite red fruit, the photo
of my sister, or maybe my aunt
pills from my daughter dissolve on my tongue
post its on top of post its, no idea
which is the right one and what on earth
is calamander doing on my desk
living in the shadow of the valley of lost words
but where was I going with all this? oh yes,
she (Lucy? Layla?) says no more bourbon
but I hide it somewhere, ha!
but look! there is toilet paper
floating into the harbor
followed by persimmon and potato peeler
I scoop them up in the thing with holes
dry them off and take them home
yet still fewer and fewer words
until I walk out of this watery world
under spinning stars and
a yellow saucer in the sky
About the Author
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.
