A statue dark and cold

The plague had come to Athens

when the summer days were long,

while the battles took our sons

and the bards sang no song.

 

The sickness had stolen my wife,

and the Fates abandoned my boy,

Xanthe had become my everything,

my daughter, my will, and my joy.

 

Pericles called us to the city

far away from the open air,

he promised safety from the Spartans,

but the true enemy lingered there.

 

Within her long walls, the violent coughs sang,

thundering in temples and each sacred place.

Relentless thirsts refused to be quenched,

as breathless gasps wore reddened face.

 

And on that dreaded harvest morning

Xanthe’s corrupted skin began to sink,

her clothes as soiled as a newborn babe’s,

her hazel eyes swimming in a sea of pink.

 

“Father, father, I can barely see,”

she whispered through hoarse voice.

“My hand, my toes are fast asleep,

so how can I rejoice?

 

How can I show Apollo

that Athens loves him so?

If I can no longer dance and praise,

how will the fair gods know—

 

—to accept our votive offers?

and to let this punishment pass?

To restore the city’s power

through her ships and upon her grass?”

 

She looked just like her mother,

in beauty and in death,

but this love I may yet save.

By the gods, there’s still time left!

 

If his children won’t answer our pleas,

then I’ll appeal to the higher source,

“We’re going to Zeus Olympios,

by wretched foot if not by horse.

 

Gather your finest jewelry

and I will hasten the sheep.

Collect what little grain we have—

child, you must fight the urge to sleep!”

 

The streets were full of bodies,

both decaying and alive.

No room for beasts of burden,

nor the will to survive—

 

—but I marched forward all the same,

carrying Xanthe and all our things,

up the Hills of Nymphs and Muses

where even goddesses don’t sing. 

 

The smell of blood and feces

punched at every turn,

wafting from both beast and man

as they bled and shat and burned.

 

Deities were being cursed

more than they were ever praised;

faith was drained from devout lips

as the gods were being erased.

 

But there was no time to ponder,

not a second to despair,

I must placate Zeus by nightfall,

for Xanthe to be in his care.

 

“Father, do you think he’ll be smiling,

shining with ten thousand rays of light?

For I would know not what to say to him,

but shake with admiration and fright.

 

How does one greet such a god?

What pleasantries could suffice?

Won't even the greatest of mortal lauds

sound like the whimpering of mice?”

 

The sun set over Ares’ Hill,

where the Agora sold no goods,

and I trekked through lifeless outskirts,

reaching where Zeus’ temple stood.

 

I dragged my heart to the altar,

over the others who had failed,

sacrificed with blade and fire

as my daughter joyfully wailed.

“Father, father, I see him,

and I’m nothing but in awe,

of his immortal beauty

and divine power so raw.”

 

She rolled a heavy head toward him,

opening her swollen eyes,

and made a fruitless bargain

with the silent, empty skies.

 

“We give to you these gifts

though little they may be,

but small is our request:

to spare the life of me.”

 

But all I saw was nothing—

just a statue, dark and old—

as her weight stilled in my arms,

and her supple skin ran cold.

 

I prayed the plague would take me,

but that went unanswered, too,

like the hundred thousand wishes

on Athenian lips chapped and blue.