Gorgo

"Come back to me with your shield or on it,"
her knuckles were white but her eyes were dry,
but her lips brushed his ear as she said it,

knew the red sun shone on their last moment
before he trod off to Thermopylae.
"Come back to me with your shield or on it,"

how her words were as hard as the trumpet
which called her husband, her king, off to die,
but his eyes held to hers as she said it.

He'd make the Persian tyrant regret it
with the same broad shoulders that made her sigh.
"Come back to me with your shield or on it,"

but the Pythian priestess decreed it,
her swaying snake body and gutteral cry,
and Gorgo's blood dried up when she heard it.

Taking a chalice of wine she spilled it
praying his return from Thermopylae.
"Bring him with his shield or upon it,"
her voice faltering some as she said it.