by Brett Rutherford
after Meleager, Greek Anthology VI, 163
a mock sword, mock spear,
a shield of no more use
than a cake platter,
garlands and roses, ribbons
and stalks of wheat,
a maiden's under-
garments, trophies
of someone's
wedding night.
I am not amused,
and neither is Ares,
who fortunately sleeps
right now below horizon
or there'd be hell to pay.
The proper offerings here
are pointy spears, lances
broken in battle's fervor,
helmets shorn of plumes,
a dented shield with both
one's own and the enemy's
blood proudly unwiped.
Young man, no matter
how long you fought
the fierce virgin, and won,
don't crow about it.
The precinct of Ares
is for men of arms,
and blood on bronze.
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