JOHN GARDNER

From Jason and Medeia

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            He moons out the

     window, sad

     as a priest, and she’s impressed by it. — Oh my but

     that boy

     can be pretty, when he likes! He kisses her hand and

     tells her, “Do not

     be afraid, Mother. I’m doing what the gods demand.

     The omens

     show it. We used to be rich, Mother. Now that

     we’re poor,

     we ought to have learned that nothing counts but the

     gods’ friendship.

     Let me serve them; then when you die, you’ll die in

     peace,

     whether I’m near or not. You’ve told me yourself,

     Mother,

     that all there is in the world, at last, is the war or peace of dying men

and the old undying gods. The omens favor the trip. I must go.” And he 

kisses her cheeks.

     Ah, Jason!

     Cunning burled so deep he can’t see it himself! Omens! Did he ask his

friends the augurers what omens they see for his mother? Or Pelias? Or the

city? Would that the

     birdsongs sang

     his death!’

     And then she was gone; her black shawl

     vanished in the crowd.

     My throat was dry with shame. I was numb. I stood 

     too stunned

     to think. If I could have summoned speech that instant,

     I might

     have called it off on the spot, to hell with the

     consequences.

     But then, from nowhere, a man appeared at my side,

     a man—

     or god, who knows? — hooded till only his beard

     peeked out.