I.
They set out marching
two by two – wait –
no, that’s not right.
They can’t be in twos.
There is no lifelong pair
bonding here.
Fine. One by one, then.
II.
I want to say something
beautiful; I want to say
that the ancient Greek pantheon
was a panoply of desperate love,
that every single
ersatz Hera
was Zeus falling –
what else is worth Helios
blotting out the world
(like we turn off a television)?
All for Alcmene,
he bathed the landscape
in darkness and deceit.
III.
They set out marching single
file through the tapestry
of space and time;
they wear no uniforms,
no buttons shine like miniature
suns set in the galaxies
of their starched lapels –
just suits, jeans, those viral
grey sweatpants, scrub
bottoms, tennis shoes.
They are from the Latin, briga,
which means strife.
To be human is to cheat –
on tests, on taxes, on people.
IV.
I wanted to say something
beautiful; instead, I’m rewatching
Scandal. Fitz is burning
down the world (like Hera
lighting a funeral pyre
with a vengeance),
supposedly all for Olivia,
but mostly because
power
loves to smother
sunlight.
V.
Somewhere, in a middle school
gymnasium, a little boy
twenty-six years in the past
asks a little girl who’s not his
for a dance.