Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

8
Ganymede thinks only of Zeus.
No one could imagine a greater joy.
And yet his delicate fingers shake
as he takes the green-peeled apple.
He puts it down on the golden tray,
looks at his blushing cheeks
reflected there,
his hair still tousled by passion,
his lesser size, his frailer limbs.
He wonders: if I refuse the gift,
and let but one day’s aging pass.
If I were older, fuller, stronger —
would Zeus love me better?
The boy turns sleepless in his sheltered bed,
frozen between love and uncertainty.