The Last of Her Line

The last of her line of warrior queens
Penthesilea spurred the flagging Trojans
to combat with brave words and Priam had
faith until the oracle showed him her
limp form on a funeral pyre.

But the fleeting glory of the Amazon
inspired the armies of Troy, dispirited
by nine years of encirclement, by Hector's
death and they followed her wild mare to

the battlefield and fought as they never
had before, lancing and axing the Greeks,
driving them back to the beached ships
with newfound fury, their wild warcries

crowning the seagulls' wails. Blood
gored the plains of Ilium and heads rolled
like stones on the breach of Achaean
      offence
until Achilles, still mourning Patroclus

joined the battle to confront the warrior
woman. The air thundered with battle
the cries of the dying, the speared, the
gutted. Facing each other, the half god

the Amazon each scented victory. Ah,
Penthesilea's spear glanced off dread
Achilles' shield, his greave and in his
turn Chiron's pupil pierced the warrior

woman through her breast, penetrating
the horse to stick her body like meat
upon a spit. Plucking the helm from her
head, Achilles looked with rage on the

dead beauty of the woman whose courage
matched his and he lusted helplessly
for those slack limbs to entwine his
that dead mouth to catch his, that gone

breath to sweeten his life. There is
no victory in conquering
                  there is no glory!
he cried in anguish and tried to die.