I should have waited until
they slept. They should have died
in their nursery, sweetly sleeping
on feather pallets and clean
sheets, my cheerful boys,
my chubby boys who always
climbed onto my lap
and wrapped their arms around
my neck. Curly-haired,
brown-eyed sons of a pretty,
pretty man.

For him,
I slipped out of my father’s
palace every night.
For him, I slaughtered my own
brother, my warrior brother,
scattered his body – his arms,
his legs, his head, the slab
of his torso – on the waves
behind our ship.

Concocting
the fiery potion, stitching
the silken, slim-waisted gown
for his new bride, lacing it
with my vile perfume – all,
all slowed to ceremony,
and I was a priestess, my hands
deft and judicious as blades.

I wonder: Did my lovely
Jason cry? Tears would,
I believe, become him.