Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

2
THE ENCOUNTER WITH GANYMEDE
It is a moonless night.
Earth dips into the inkwell sky:
even Olympus sinks
into the raven-feathered dark.
A chill blows up from the Stygian banks.
The smell of sulfur and stagnant ponds
usurps the garlands, the incense,
the overtopping urns of ambrosia.
The Greek Isles tremble.
Elephant waves stampede,
flooding the unprotected shore,
careening the ships in safe harbors.
The Titans roar in Tartarus,
bellow in their cursed sleep,
pulling their blankets of stone askew.
Zeus calls Poseidon. Ares arrives,
gallops from cloud-top
on his nightmare stallions,
armor akimbo. Lastly Hephaestus,
borne on a car with a clutch of weapons:
newly-forged swords and ancient javelins,
polished brass shields and helmets,
piled at the side of the council hall.
The earthquake wakens Hera.
She feels the crack on her temple floors,
the rush of mothers and children
to the shelter of her altars,
the supplication of priestesses.
Donning a cloak she rushes to the hall,
her hair and robes thrown wide
by the speed of her flight,
only to find the bronze door closed,
the brazier of welcome extinguished,
the servants scattering —