It’s Friday afternoon, there goes Antigone to be buried alive.

& someone in the chorus asks, what makes a tragedy?

Well, a tragedy is what happens when the soul is too great

 for a mortal to handle. A tragedy is a mourning dove 

painting the asphalt blood-red. A tragedy is a young girl

with mud under her fingernails, running from one place 

to another knowing very well where her bed lies. 

Bridal chamber, house in the ground forever, 

someone has put weights on your robes while you slept.

& someone in the chorus asks, why must poor Antigone die?

Sister sister daughter sister, you have been doomed

since they began to write you. You carry your dead

on your back like black-jack seeds, pine needles of grief.

There is nothing I can do to save you, I can only hope

to capture your voice correctly. Maybe if I read your

story out loud I can put you in my world. I can 

give you a life where you don’t end up under 

someone else’s thumb.    But then again, 

Antigone is Antigone because she’s dead. 

Who am I to take that away from you? You were born

with one foot in the grave, thigh to thigh with your 

brother. It’s your god-given right to go as you please, 

head high & bright-eyed. Follow the voice of the river,

 it will take you where you belong. 

& someone in the chorus cries, there goes Haemon with a sword in his hands.

For you were loved, yes, you were dreadfully loved & 

isn’t that what it’s all about? You loved your brother a 

little too much & that means you walk hand in hand with 

Death. He has loved you a little too much & that means 

he will follow you underground. Madness corrupts your house

like a plague of termites but look at the foundations: 

they’re not rotten yet. 

Your sister calls out to you from the other side of

the room but you can’t hear her anymore; you

have a hammer in your hands, you’re chipping

away at the narrative, you’re making this story

one worth singing about. They will build you 

up for centuries, Antigone, they will make you a star.