Every myth speaks, every way, every lost
path that wanders off to the last hill’s crest
must, at last, speak. It was there, as I crossed
the ridge, in pink clover, border pinks, blessed
lilies and sweet cress, that I found the ax.
The head, bronze tip, like the fingers that once
choked life, stuck up out of the greensward. Wax
pears hung nearby in witness. The grievance
we call history is that even when
I dig you up, dear ax, I will be told
that it was some man’s name, man’s arms, man’s face,
that bore you and that bores me once again.
Please, dear ax, speak. I listen for the old
truths found in these pink wind-tortured places.
When Hercules’ soldiers fled from the Amazons’ attack Pantariste lead the chase after them. Two Greek foot soldiers turned to attack her but she killed them both (legend has it she broke the neck of one with her bare hands). She then threw her spear at Tiamides, who blocked it with his shield, but the force knocked him to the ground. Pantariste then beheaded Tiamides using her labrys, a double-headed ax.