Carnegie Mellon University Press

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Publishing books since 1972, with a particular focus on poetry and literature. Here's what we're up to: linktr.ee/cmupress

Sulky Achilles
That's him over there—
alone, on his haunches
next to the campfire,
playing with a stick,
stirring sparks into
the hateful sky. "Fuck
Agamemnon," he mutters,
relicking his paw. He's
withdrawn and mopey,
grumpy over a girl—
he stole her first, gods
dammit. Behind him,
his buddies, faces fear
filled and green, clank
swords with the enemy
on the wine-colored fields
of Troy. He shrugs. He's
just not feeling the fury,
though wrath has always
been his gift, his thing.
And he'll unfurl it
without mercy on Hector,
and Andromache, and
Priam, and so on, he will,
but that's later. Right now,
he's promising himself,
he'll never be dumb enough
to drop his armor again. Go
big or go home, amirite?