"The rat I wrangled from my womb has wronged me!
Bit me! Bled me! Hear a mother's cry to kill her kid!
Choke the sopping monster who goes glued to Fate
By my very blood! Sucked from my very teat,
milk and blood both-- bitter, bitter!
O Aegiesthus' ghost-- where are you?
Hold my breasts and fuck me!
These same breasts that came with my pubescent blood,
Oresetes nuzzled-- his skull-top as soft as his pea of a nose.
Unfinished he flooded into a turgid world,
Torn by troubling dreams; I built him from boy to man, I
And I alone touched him wonderingly, wantingly:
That this star should fall from my fuckholeÖ.
Damn him! Damn him! What is it to be a mom
If men may treat their mothers thus? Curse him!
My identity's stripped to ifs without him; without him
Numbered and known as my son, my son.
Hard the travail, hard the happiness, and now
hard the death-time
Of mothers and their motherhood.
Sleepless across the groined earth I groan,
Loneliness airless and endless. Not mother, but murderer
My son--that damned man--proclaims me to finally be.
His insistence on Justice is a sinkhole of sorrows
Burying his Mommy for God. Ah, God--
No; no refuge there; no clouds, no angels, no respite
For a woman torn and scorned. I'm jammed into my gender:
First, pollution of the menstrual punch, then sex
Wished-for in waiting, not sought in warm arousal
But closeted and kept close, moldy with hoping--
Thin mystery of the singing clit mixed with sorrow-oh!
Known then as Agamemnon's woman, addendum to majesty,
That which cleaves and is cloven--flickeringly split in loving--
His arms the margins of my seacoast--no more, no less.
And no woman knows another; slakers and takers of the defining phallus--
Competitive finessers of the clamping circumstance.
Came Helen, and away went our hairy thousands,
All the wood echoing like a troubled drum.
Men marching into the sea! Seaborne, sea-torn,
So many with no fluff on their chins, little wrigglers.
War-widow I was then, alone as a lion,
Stalking the beaches at dawn, clubbed and stunned
By the night menaces; the sins of the dreamless hours,
My mind a shifty shuttle on no holy loom.
What was I in this absence of passions? Unkicked, unlicked.
No nobility rolled, lucid and lovely, from my hurt hollows.
I was uncoiled and void; knowingless, dirty, and numb."