“You returned to Rome Augustus triumphant./King of defeated nation I trailed behind./To this day the senators can’t tell/which of the two wore the wreath.”
Sarcasm
what sort of weapon really are you
that injures both the hunter and his prey,
that damages the plaintiff
as much as the defendant,
that the assailant afflicts
same as hurts his victim,
and leaves battlefields bereft
of victory or defeat
—like a barren wasteland
stripped of all rank and glory?
Look at me! One of your arrows
just bruised my worthiness,
one of your mighty whips
my dignity just wounded.
A nipping pain. A sting.
My limbs assumed the statues’ halting,
the air copied arctic winds,
empty the goblet of our discourse,
and a hemorrhage of tears
—inwardly cascading—
my melancholy flooded.
Look at you! Your whips and arrows
their poison left behind
that filled the dimples on your cheeks
with bitter tasting candy,
spoiled the red of victory
with streaks of yellow doubt,
and amply splattered on the rim
of your contented smile
vexing suspicions of fraud.
Silence in the battlefield of shame
Silence on the precincts of my lips
Muteness: my peace offering to you,
a vast estate of noiseless grace
like friendship spread between us,
an arid land to end the bloom
that bears as fruit your weapon,
a wise steppe that saves the rain
to drown my heart’s temptations,
lest I too your rose choose to cultivate,
lest I too your arms attempt to match.
You returned to Rome Augustus triumphant.
King of defeated nation I trailed behind.
To this day the senators can’t tell
which of the two wore the wreath.
Youlika Masry, a dual citizen of Greece and the United States, completed her legal education in Greece and France and also studied political theory in the United States. In addition to publishing poetry, she writes and translates books and essays in literature; the social sciences; religion and theology.
