Philoctetes watched his thigh go from pink
to streaky red, gangrenous green and then black;
the wound wept ceaselessly, milky white pus
and blood that stank of rot.
Before he grew too weak, he would hobble
with Herakles’ bow as crutch to fetch edible grasses and leaves
as well as the occasional slow-moving sea bird.
He had neither the means or the will to light a fire
so he’d eat them raw, guts and bones and all.
Then, even that proved too much for him,
and the hero whom Phoibos had prophesied
the great walls of Troy would not fall without,
just lay there shivering, wondering if death would come
from hunger or fever first. With cracked lips and delirium
he prayed fervently, constantly prayed he.
Not for the heaven Gods to save him;
no, nor for his eyes to close and never open again.
He cursed Odysseus, that wretch,
who’d left him here on the island when the viper kissed him.
Every second of his suffering was that man’s fault,
and he begged to see it repaid, with interest.
