Achilles

The name our

friend has chosen

for her mastiff

is sublime.

We wait to hear

the inevitable:

Achilles, heel!

Almost invulnerable,

were it not

for a patch near his

paw;

able to sniff

out a cad,

any boorish

lout

who makes a pass.

We envision

a vivid

scenario,

picture him

by her side,

at the Apollo’s

Pharmacy,

a box of Trojan

love balloons

snuck discreetly

in her purse,

the one she got

on Etsy, with

vintage ‘80s

horse hair,

as if some

stealthy

turnabout,

hoping a heroic,

Grecian Spartan

will ascend from

The Iliad,

the copy she keeps

by the fire,

beside a dog-

eared Ancient Myths,

with two

glasses of

Muscat Blanc,

one for her,

and one for a

woman’s best friend,

beside her with

his vicious mouth

agape, a cave of tongue

and teeth,

ready to bite

on his arrival,

sit back down

if she commands;

lick the spot

below his calf

as if to pity his

single weakness.

Andreas Gripp

February 3, 2024

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