Love Conquers All

Achilles, it seems,

is deemed

the greatest of us all—

especially when compared with Paris.

Even Hector the valiant brother who fought

against both man and God (and having thought

he had already done so once

and vanquished the legend— what joy

that radiant evening when he retuned home),

Hector whose mind accepted that Achilles still lived

and then

whose heart confronted the truth

that he must lose—the knowledge

blossoming with every thrust and parry...

because what must it have felt like

to have your sword hit the flesh

and rebound...(did it match the beat

of his own thudding heart?)

to witness

the absence of blood...the lack of a wound…

(Achilles, the sacred virgin never to be pierced)

the story

of his foe’s plunge into the sacred river unbound?

Imagine then Hector in that final battle

swinging, knowing he was the greater swordsman,

believing his skill was surpassingly better as he fought

the Grecian Hero (after all

what did Achilles need of skill) and that

because of a mother’s love,

it would not be enough…

all the practise—the hot hours

sweating under the sun, the relentless hours

away from his beloved—meaningless

opposed to the Styx-dipped Achilles anointed by his mother, Thetis,

and then anointed again by history.

What thoughts flicked through Hector’s mind as his arm

grew ever more tired...

the steel once friend shifting into foe

and the lips of his treasured Andromache moving ever more further away.

Is that the kiss of death then?

That remembered

soft collide of lips

between the about-to-die and their beloved?

And as the killing stroke drew closer,

unbeknown

so too did his final humiliation.

Urged on by Achilles’ grief,

a grief born out of love, a grief that fed the rage

and was expressed in Hector’s ignoble chariot ride

around and around his city,

the dust rising as his carcass was dragged

like any slaughtered animal

or easily purchased bride.

And Hector’s father, Priam,

the father of Paris too but at this point not moot,

standing there on the walls…watching

the greater of the two ridiculed in death,

What thoughts did he have?

Did he think back to Hector’s birth?

Or further back to the time he saw Hecuba in the fields

the soft swell of her belly confirming

the seed planted? Or further back still,

back the to first time when she,

Unaware of his eyes

Walked, innocent then, through the city?

But in losing to Achilles

did Hector — rather than flee…

even as his mind reeled  (not a thought to yield

but always to fight on)—

conquer fear (though not death

even Achilles despite the deeming,

failed at that — we all fail at that)?

So Achilles then

the greatest of us all

yet

when the moon breaks through...

the sky cloudy... the night still after the rain…

and the moon is full,

its soft light capturing the mind

and she stands there on the bridge

a slight wind

blowing

her hair so that her right hand removes three strands

from her lips

It is Paris we think of

for she becomes our Helen

and eternal Achilles slips (As all heroes must)

into the shadows of things before

the moon

the wind

and her

standing on that bridge

removing those three strands and,

you hope,

turning to return your look.