Riding Toward Sparta

I remember Agamemnon
when we tied our horses
to a fig tree, peed a yellow stream
along its base. He wagged his
bullish ballsack
at the countryside, then
clapped my back – “I won’t forget
you when I’m given Helen.”
He took a fig and forced his tongue
into its ripe softness, made
sucks and mock-moans, and
laughed at a world created
for his pleasure.
Cicadas grew loud –
evening bats
began their erratic courses
as ours would veer
just weeks to come.
As we rode on – “Little brother,”
he said, “I’ll give you
her shy sister,
Clytem-something
too thin for fervent breeding
but sufficient
after enough wine
to keep you warm –
and you can be my
ambassador to – anywhere
while I stay home and
bang out twenty sons!”