by Abbi Gallagher
I curse these Gods who grant me life
for they have dealt you death.
You who I loved beyond all other comrades,
loved as my own life.
I curse these Gods
and yet must curse myself. For it was I who
dug your grave.
My words could never hope
to express the sorrow heavy in
my heart.
If only I could find you—
dear Patroclus—
in these unending fields of Elysium,
I could try.
That is right, my love,
I have dug my grave next to yours.
To see you again.
To make right my wrongs.
To return to a time like Phthia when I
knew only of peace
and you.
I am certain you are here.
You must be
for Chiron trained us both
Our blood soaked the same earth,
slicked the same armour.
I was but a weapon
but you were a hero
and, here, heroes come to die.
Curse my golden blood,
my mother’s blessing.
Curse the battles I fought in your name,
emerging unscathed.
Curse the life ahead—
worthless
without you.
I simply must find you Patroclus,
explain how I shook my fist to the heavens,
dragged their favoured son through the dirt
until, guided by Apollo himself,
an arrow
struck me down
at last.
The pain was sharp but sweet—
well-deserved and long overdue.
With that arrow my debts were paid
and I began my journey back to you:
climbing hill after hill,
searching for your dark, curly hair,
your kind eyes,
your forgiving smile.
Patroclus, once I find you all will be right.
It will not matter that I dressed you in my armour to die.
We can return to our lives like in Phthia
—accepting no company but each other.
I must find you Patroclus.
I must right my wrongs.
You must be here Patroclus.
You must
forgive me.