I stepped over corpses
while sprinting for the arena.
I mistook it for the exit
as abandoned children
do.
The undead sank
their jagged claws
into my heels
like harpoons
as I sailed past,
for I am their
white whale.
I ignored
this traitorous ballast
‘til its heft
slowed my stride.
‘Til the jolt
of ravenous hooks
flung the sword from my hand,
forced my shield down,
and dropped my knees
to the bloody dust.
Only then
did I behold their ragged bones
heed their howling groans
and inhale their weeping flesh.
The half dead
dragged by the dozens,
stretched behind
like an immense profane
wedding train.
This unholy cargo
tenaciously chained
to my Achilles
was my children,
my loves,
my homes
all begging me
to stay.
I had exhumed
their limp, decayed bodies
kissed dirt from their eye sockets
and propped them up in chairs
around my table.
Enough.
It is time.
I will dig their graves
in this gladiator pit,
erect stones
in their memory,
ignore the crowd’s
mocking jeers
and dodge
their hurled indignance.
I will finish this quest
assigned me,
for the boatman comes
my coins are ready
and these are my hands.
Time to cast off
these hooks and irons,
let the griefcry
erupt from my bowels
and be free.
© S. Rinderle, September 2025
