As usual, legend got it all
wrong: Nestor's wife was the one
to crouch under
jug upon jug of fragrant water poured
until the small room steamed.
But where was Nestor---
on his throne before the hearth,
counting the jars of oil
in storeroom 34, or
at the Trojan wars
while his wife with her white hands
scraped the dirt from a lover's back
with a bronze scalpel?
Legend, as usual, doesn't
say. But this heap of limestone
blocks---look how they fell, blasted
by the force of olive oil
exploding in the pot, look
at the pattern left in stucco
from the wooden columns, sixty
flutings, look at the shards
scattered in the hall where
jars spilled from the second floor,
oil spreading in flames
to the lady's throne.
For the sake of legend only the tub
stands, tiny and voluptuous
as a gravy dish.
And the blackened remains of ivory
combs and 2,853 tall-stemmed
drinking cups in the pantry---
these, too, survived
when the clay pots screamed
and stones sprang their sockets
and the olive trees grew into the hill.
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