Aristeia

 “Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.”

Homer, The Iliad

 

I would give my daughter this

strong, feminine name

for its open, flowing symmetry

into which she could

pour herself like rich liquid

filling an ancient painted vase

of Daphne transforming herself

into a laurel tree rather than

allow Apollo to rape her.

 

As a little girl she would say astonishing things

the way children do. I would laugh and marvel

and forget my plethora of rage and hopelessness.

But throughout her life she would be forced

to pronounce it, spell it, translate it:

‘excellence’ from the Greek.

 

“No, I’m not.” She’d explain that her mother

was a poet who loved myth and metaphor

and found the word melodious.

 

“Though most often,” she would add bitterly,

“it refers to an apogee in battle, like the Iliad,

when Achilles murders his Trojan rival.”

 

This she’d have learned on her own

felt tricked, betrayed, exploited

and in the myriad ways mothers become

enemies in their children’s eyes

she would estrange herself

prosecute me in therapy. Therapeia.

Another beautiful Greek word.