K.T. Slattery was born in Memphis, Tennessee, and grew up just across the state line in Mississippi. A graduate of Spring Hill College in Mobile, Alabama, she now lives in the West of Ireland with her husband and an ever-increasing amount of rescue pets.

My Dearest Brother Apollo,

Every day you step into your glorious golden chariot.

Aethon, Pyrois, Phlegan, and Eous- exquisite and powerful equines

at your service to pull you through the stratosphere

while you kick up your feet and enjoy nectar and ambrosia.

By now, I am sure they know the way.

You are worshipped and honoured by all-

and here I sit (with far more duties than you;

hunting, tending to all of the wild animals, etc. 

with nothing more than two hands and two strong legs

to do my duty every night. Why must I push the moon on my own?

Every night, making that long, arduous journey.

And when the damn thing is full…

Is there any reason you know of that I have

so fallen out of favour with our father,

that he will not even give me a little silver wagon

to aid me in my task? We share the same blood-

By Hades, we even shared the same womb-

and there you are, the Golden Boy- with all your women,

all your worshipers, while father has decreed to all that I am chaste.

 I know all of this is not your fault- and you are and shall always be

my favourite fellow Olympian, but could you at least put in a good word?

If not, I might be forced to raise some serious hell on my next night off.

Your beloved sister,

Artemis

Any Resemblance In this Poem to The Man Who is Lying Through his Teeth and Claiming Squatters Rights in My Field is Purely Coincidental

I cannot look at the thirsty cows you will not remove from my pasture

Without wishing I had the power of a Fury

To direct at you and all your ilk

The people who take and take

Because they can

The necks of this world

And you… well, a giraffe’s polo neck would not fit you

In Santorini, the donkeys would choose their heftiest loads

Glue them to a wall

And play pin the burger on the tourist

While in Galway, the horses on the Curragh line

Would brandish their whips liberally

To make half-starved men pull their buggies faster

In Africa lions would drug the trophy hunters

Catching them with no effort

To display their lazy heads in their dens

Somewhere in France

Poachers would be gored by the tusk

Of a Southern White Rhinoceros

As for you-

I shall borrow from the punishment of Tantalus

Leaving you alone in a barren field

Water fleeing when you desperately lean over to sate

Your parched throat

Food just out of reach

The hot sun forever burning your bald sweat stained head

And just for shits and giggles

I shall give you the neck you should have been born with

Six feet of muscle and bone to hold that inflated head of yours

Nowhere to Hide

I struggle to keep my temper
in check as I observe
your inability to finish a simple task.
 
I have painted the upstairs twice.
First a white that was too brown-
and then a white that is just not yellow enough.
Now that is done, I have baked another cake
(because your double chin needs feeding)
 
I have walked new paths into the mountain,
thinking the sun might
make you more appealing-
Vitamin D might give me
a more tolerant nature towards
All Things You.
 
I cannot get on a plane-
leave you behind,
get a few moments of peace-
lose myself in a painting
or experience a tenor’s booming reprieve.
 
Cannot visit friends, smile
and laugh, keep up the
this monotonous game of charades.
I can run as fast as I can
on this hamster’s wheel
upon which I have found myself-
but there is no escape.
 
Because now,
It’s you and me.
Me and you.
And by you,
I mean me.