with my immortal escort,
into the Ward of Chthonius,
the walls that house
the highest born of Spartoi-spawn,
or so they consider themselves.
Hermes looks around,
as a man might look
at a city built by clever mice.
We approach a headhouse of high balconies,
each hung with a deep purple broadcloth.
the eldest daughter of Lord Antipoinus,
holds court from those imposing heights.
Witness smug Androkleia's grin,
as I run past
at the elbow of a god.
But these sights
in my mind.
On this singular morning,
Androkleia's perch stands empty.