Poetry By Aisha Weththasingha
The adrenaline coursed through
the streams of my skin, a buildup of
sweat thickened on my brow. I could hear
my reverberating breath against the
hollow bronze of my helmet— his helmet. His armor too, it
struck against my chest like beating wings, and
somehow, his sickly-sweet stench remained
on the frame of the suit. His stain. I recall the first sight of
famed Hector, his eyes set on mine, striding like
a god chasing the sea, or the wind shaking an olive tree. He saw through the
metal skeleton, saw my tilting frame,
Achilles weakness, he must've thought, when he plunged that
poisoned spear through me, creased eyes hidden behind the
stoic mask. A little someone had asked me if
I would do it all again. If I would keep it all the same.
I said yes. yes, yes, I would feel it all,
the passion, the rush, the toxin taint upon my body,
I would see through it for centuries forever, like
Prometheus fringing his crested cliff. I'd let the stars take me.
no matter what fate might have befallen me, none
could be worse than to see through an ending where
I was left alive without him, whose armor I died
homing. him, who I'd count the stars and
trek the endless sky for. One, two, and three syllables,
a breath like rose petals on untouched water:
Achilles.