Athena

 

My mother at the Erecheum, Athens, Greece, 1957.

The Erechtheion is an ancient Greek temple 

constructed on the acropolis of Athens 

between 421 and 406 BCE.

 

You did not inherit the throne

dear daughter—

no map-like memory

or language ability

no attributes of the Gods.

You are fallible, human,

whereas I don the grey gleaming

olive crown of Athens.

 

Modern thought? Wisdom? 

I embody them both.

I did not spring from my father’s head—

the birth was typical.

 

My family was marked by peculiar happenings

the ancient half dragon, half human creature

really an ordinary man,

and another forced into a pretend marriage.

 

My father drove an electric milk truck

on Brooklyn streets

so we did not want for anything.

My mother was plumber, cook, 

sewer of clothing until

she fell down on the sidewalk

cancer riddled.

 

I was already in college at age 16

when they tried to split us up

but I prevailed—my brother did not

go to cousins in Florida.

 

I’m called the goddess of war,

contested Poseidon for Attica.

I know how to battle

intimidation of a daughter a sacred art

shame in money issues a boon for my glory.

 

I taught you to read and showed

what I could of life

by example. 

I have worn armor, helmet,

and a shield showing two lions devouring a bull.

 

I did not abuse my power.

There, in Erechtheum—

you will find my statue

glorifying the city’s influence.

 

You will find me in the theater of Dionysius,

at the Parthenon,

or in my temple in Delphi.

Look in the marketplace of Athens for me—

I like handicrafts, weaving.

Look in the orchards

for fruits under my protection.

 

Olympus trembles terribly

under my bright eyes—

the earth groans sorely

the sea heaves in purple waves.