Two Poems
Cooper Esteban

Achilles in Hell

Even lying callus
to callus, Patroclus,
under my breath.
Her legs sutured
to mine.
If only
Peleus had kept
to the higher
slopes, I might
have been
a farmer's boy,
fucking his father's
yearlings when
no one
was looking.


By the third day it was so
organized, so nearly
differentiated that it was
beautiful. On the fourth
the light became specific
to sources and could be
turned away from. Unlike
Heaven with its omnidirectional
brilliance, its unceasing
labor of song,
so that the angels,
to grasp the word "ending," could only
fondle the boundaries of
their own bodies--and wonder
what that foreshadowed.