Cassandra

Cassandra
Cassandra saw everything
Everything she needed to see
In one moment, her lashes navigating circumscriptive
The journey upon her lids one
Meager flash. Blinding in clarity,
And in the brevity of certainty-
She could realize that Helen was just Helen...
Nothing more and nothing less, but Paris
Was a man, and their fates were sealed with a glance.
Cassandra, did she die a virgin? How is it that we do not know...
What happened to her lips...the juicy flesh of her inner thigh?
To her flaming maidenhead? Was there indeed a pyre?
Though history has been so generous in sharing the truths of
Her golden iris – the two portals she grew tired of, those milky
Scanning globes... scoped and locked in a conflict of the revision of the inevitable...
I'd like to think that Cassandra knew the touch of a cold-blooded mountain, a silent
Lean suitor, as he pulled back her sanctuary of curtains
Surrounding some exotic kind of incendiary bed,
Draped in jade billows, diligently embroidered in carnelian-edged finesse,
Some little place to escape the whispers tauntingwitch...
A thousand mirrored orbs spin in crystalline perfection from the ceiling,
Strung up prismatic goblets spilling precious fermentations of Iris
Oh she of the Rainbow! Burn a little incense- its breath heaving,
Washing the insole, caressing each sandal-laden limb,
He will take his time. He will pour libations of grape-seed oil,
As befitting a priestess, one who speaks to fire, to rain, and to ravens...
For Cassandra – yes, let there be one who is unafraid, let there be for her
A feather-lipped, ebony-haired, spider-fingered man who knew just what to do...
And let him delight her as a thousand sunrises rise and fall,
Until the horses ride out the gate, their thunder beating down the grey road dust,
I'd like to think she knows herself to be the once and always
The true queen of angry, ancient Troy-
 And as she feels the spear point pierce her, releasing...
She will come to accept that her vision birthed this finale,
This dynasty of lust and totalitarianism,
The cauldrons of iron pouring retribution down, the screams of mares...
Taking smoldering piles of stones and blood to rivers of oblivion.