Clytemnestra’s Ghost

"The rat I wrangled from my womb has wronged me!
Bit me! Bled me!  Hear a mother's cry to kill her kid!
Choke the sopping monster who goes glued to Fate
By my very blood!  Sucked from my very teat,
	milk and blood both-bitter, bitter!
O Aegiesthus' ghost-where are you? 
	Hold my breasts and fuck me!
These same breasts that came with my pubescent blood,
Oresetes nuzzled-his skull-top as soft as his pea of a nose.
Unfinished he flooded into a turgid world,
Torn by troubling dreams;  I built him from boy to man, I
And I alone touched him wonderingly, wantingly:
That this star should fall from my fuckhole….
Damn him!  Damn him!  What is it to be a mom
If men may treat their mothers thus?  Curse him!
My identity's stripped to ifs without him;  without him
Numbered and known as my son, my son.
Hard the travail, hard the happiness, and now
	hard the death-time
Of mothers and their motherhood.
Sleepless across the groined earth I groan,
Loneliness airless and endless.  Not mother, but murderer
My son-that damned man-proclaims me to finally be.
His insistence on Justice is a sinkhole of sorrows
Burying his Mommy for God.  Ah, God-
No;  no refuge there;  no clouds, no angels, no respite
For a woman torn and scorned.  I'm jammed into my gender:
First, pollution of the menstrual punch, then sex
Wished-for in waiting, not sought in warm arousal
But closeted and kept close, moldy with hoping-
Thin mystery of the singing clit mixed with sorrow-oh!
Known then as Agamemnon's woman, addendum to majesty,
That which cleaves and is cloven-flickeringly split in loving-
His arms the margins of my seacoast-no more, no less.
And no woman knows another; slakers and takers of the 
defining phallus-
Competitive finessers of the clamping circumstance.
Came Helen, and away went our hairy thousands,
All the wood echoing like a troubled drum.
Men marching into the sea!  Seaborne, sea-torn,
So many with no fluff on their chins, little wrigglers.
War-widow I was then, alone as a lion,
Stalking the beaches at dawn, clubbed and stunned
By the night menaces;  the sins of the dreamless hours,
My mind a shifty shuttle on no holy loom.
What was I in this absence of passions?  Unkicked, unlicked.
No nobility rolled, lucid and lovely, from my hurt hollows.
I was uncoiled and void;  knowingless, dirty, and numb."