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HEROD
By Stephen Lewis
Published in North Atlantic Review, No. 8, 1996
[This poem assumes some knowledge of Herod the Great, and in particular the Biblical story concerning the
Slaughter of the Innocents. Click here for
background.]
I
They think it is the worms
that gnaw my guts.
The fools.
Always too literal,
believing I will
purge the kingdom
of babes in swaddling.
They do not understand
that I seek death
to snap the chains
that bind me to my past
as surely
as the great anchor cable
holds the bark
that else would fly
before the morning wind
and ride the outgoing tide.
But I can sail to no haven,
find no friend nor kin
to succor me in my palsied age,
for I have killed them all--
all who had chiseled a place
in the granite of my heart,
so many nicks and gouges
in the adamantine surface.
leaving it half its size,
yet insufferably heavy.
I can almost lift this sliver
in the shadows at my feet
and hold,
again,
that descendent
of Hasmonean arrogance,
my wife, my Mariamne,
whom I took to my bosom
to gather unto me
the ruling house of the Chosen. Stiff-necked in their pride,
they did not know their house
was but a gardener's cottage
on the great Roman estate,
and that to rule even that garden
one had to buy the love
of the decidedly unchosen
Antony,
and after him, Augustus.
I became the chief gardener,
and I weeded assiduously,
and what if an innocent blossom,
or two,
fell before my hoe?
II
Was it not enough
I raised Solomon's temple,
built a magnificent edifice
where the blood of dumb beasts
runs to feed this Yahweh of theirs?
I would not defile
their holiest of holies
with pagan feet that have trod
the marble floors
of Caesar's palace.
Instead,
I trained the clumsy hands
of their priests
to mix mortar
and set the stones
of their sanctuary.
Now, in the evening,
with a shepherd's rude cloak
muffled about my face,
drawn tight
so that only I
inhale my fetid breath,
I walk about the outer walls
of the temple I built
to seek this God
whose people
I cannot please.
III
It is Mariamne
I mostly regret
when the evening breeze steals
into my chamber
with a rustle of tapestries,
as once she did
when she found in my body
balm sufficient to soothe her pride,
her legs locked around my hips
in her delicate passion,
until the warmth left her eyes
and she recalled
her birth,
and mine,
and with just a curl of a smile
she would take her leave.
Among the hills of Idumea
where I was born
I would not have learned
such scorn,
a woman riding a man,
as unthinkable
as a cow tupping a bull.
But for love I tamed my heart,
and like a wild boar pacified
in the net of her hair
and the tether of her hips.
I held my rage
until she turned,
or seemed
to turn,
her hand
to my throne.
And so she, too,
had to die,
or seemed to,
for still I hear the whisper
of her gown
between her thighs
lifted among the leaves
of the pomegranate trees,
most in the early morning
when all
is still.
IV
My sword has become
too heavy.
I hold its hilt
in my right hand
and run my thumb
over the blade.
I press harder
and slice the flesh.
It is good to see the blood
trickle down my wrist.
Many times I have killed,
thrust my point
into a man's chest
to find his heart
in a spray of red.
Once I blunted the tip
on a thick rib bone
that cracked,
reluctantly,
before yielding the flesh.
I raised the skewered man
as though he were a hollow seed
caught on my blade,
and let him
dangle
until he breathed no more.
Now, I cannot lift the weapon.
I shall have others do it for me.
There comes news of a pretender,
a babe born,
or about to be born,
who will be king,
or so the rabble say.
I shall be dead long before
this king can wear my crown.
I caress the hilt.
With both hands
I can swing
the heavy blade
over my head
to menace the empty air
before it is armed with shadows.
The sword trembles,
presses me down to my knees
as though I would pray.
I find no words.
I lay the sword down
and fall mute
into the hollow of my throne,
safe beneath the flow
of distant constellations.
I rest,
at last,
at peace.
Or so it seems.