The Color Blue Is Never Mentioned By Homer · CL Bledsoe

There is a story that, when
the Conquistadors first came
to the New World, the natives

had never known anything
like the Spanish warships and
simply couldn’t see them, like

ex-lovers at the bar. Their
shamans had to come explain
that these were the gods, returned

finally, finally to
murder the faithful, to bring
rest. Similarly, it’s said

that the trembling Greeks couldn’t
distinguish the voices in
their heads from the jealous tones

of angry gods, their own Ids
ordering young goatherds to
ravish the lusty swans, tear

their ignorant pink hearts on
the flower’s – the river’s – thorns.
You and I, we see the ships

and the lies, the flower’s thorns,
our throats the bleeding rivers
the gods ache for. We’re the gray

ones whispering the secret
math of the pyramids in
the ancient’s ears. But this is

just another story; baby,
you’re not even real. You’re just
a voice I made up so I

wouldn’t be alone when the gods
return. I’ve been faithful,
and I’m waiting for my reward.

CL Bledsoe's most recent book is Trashcans in Love. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter and blogs, with Michael Gushue, at