Cook's Tale, The

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 2004 by Skinner, Jeffrey

In a rare moment of repose, Achilles sat on a boulder. he was sweating, but we all were. The sun seemed very close. I sat next to him and waited a diplomatic moment before speaking. "No disrespect, General, sir-but every time I look in on you the story's the same: Fighting, grief, more fighting, death.

Your tragedy happens to you over and over, like a mechanical toy, whereas our lives feel uncertain and improvised, moment to moment. We love your story, don't get me wrong; but I wonder if you ever think of another life, one like ours: selling insurance, kid's education, breast cancer, a little golf on weekends . . . Of course, Your Hugeness, even as I say this I cringe with shame . . . Also, what became of your gift for music and the other arts? Should we gather that they too are a waste of time?" Achilles turned slowly to me with narrowed eyes. he was the size of at least two Iowa farm boys on the high school wrestling team. "Patroclus!" he shouted, finally. His friend came bounding over, and Achilles said, stabbing a thumb in my direction, "Who the hell is this schmo?" Patroclus shrugged. "Get him out of my sight!" And this is how I came to learn, in a previous life, the way to cook on the march, for battalions of the ravenous.