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,
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.