Ancient Antissa
The sign said Ancient Antissa
and we drove down the hill
to the coast,
Turkey over there, to the east,
and parked, looking now
for another sign
to point us to where Antissa was
or had been, the site where,
it was said,
Opheus’ head, torn from the body
by a pack of frenzied wine-drunk
Maenads,
washed up on the shore. Wave-scoured,
stone-bald, resonant as a sea shell,
the skull
still sang of the Underworld and served
henceforth as an oracle, a talking head,
if you will,
whose expertise lay on the far side of life.
No sign to show us the way to the site.
We walked on
and on, when out of the sea a wet-suited
swimmer emerged and, as if to demonstrate
evolution,
slapped up on shore, removed his flippers,
unzipped and shed his skin-tight suit, and
became human.
He went his way, we went ours, and came
at last to an open-mouthed cave big enough
to hold
a rusted tank, the muzzle of its puny cannon,
aimed at Turkey, plugged. No oracular
utterance
could be expected here, so we walked on, saw
no sign of Antissa, ancient or otherwise, halted
to behold
green meadows rising above the unruffled blue sea,
the sun-warmed earth and stones that had witnessed
the arrival
of the resonant skull granting the air its fragrance.
We had come this far. We turned back to resume
the myth of our existence.