Klepto

Dear Greece,

This letter encloses the stone that I stole

from the Theatre of Dionysus on a school trip

to help me with my O’ Level in Greek,

understanding the teenage rampage of Orestes,

the helplessness of Iphigenia in Taurus.

I was both the hapless brother and sister waiting

for a machine god to issue my parent’s decree nisi.

I got a B and my Mum and Dad got closure

to living sacrifices and the sieges around the house

as I lay with the stone ticking under my pillow

wondering why my religion had only one God

with a son who specialized in suffering

while ecstasy specialist Dionysus offered options.

For years the rock hid in an attic box with notes

on Eudaimonia from a thesis on Ethics.

I got a Beta while my god turned into Bacchus

which has always had its ups and downs.

The English are useless at returning marble

but this lump of Cretaceous limestone is a start.

Please replace it behind the throne of the priest

with apologies. Magic never travels like it should.

Commended in the 2021 Troubadour Poetry Prize