Antigone to Ismene
- Antigone to Ismene
They say in the palace I am lost, fell—or a ghost—hounding the marble halls. I do hunt, but in a peace betrayed by all this— false whispers bombs blowing south horns sounding.
Not alone—the dead are everywhere living. In caves. Or in this place. What difference can it make? Down the streets they run—their fingers the pipes, the fetid water.
Alone (alive) Ismene, I have hands— to look—to lift and push the thick air back. I have my hair at least flying wild now (father gone) finally undone.
And you your crooked thumbs lie tucked to their palms useless. I thought better of you, sister. But no matter.
The truth (even so) even more— a shell sound—echoes and bounces past the gates.
Lee Peterson’s first collection of poems, Rooms and Fields: Dramatic Monologues from the War in Bosnia (Kent State University Press, 2004) was selected by Jean Valentine for the 2003 Stan and Tom Wick Poetry Prize. Peterson teaches English and creative writing at Penn State Altoona.
