Journal of Italian Translation

John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 121
--”Thanks, Mr. Shoulders-like-a-battering-ram.
But are you single? Do you have a wife?”
--”Who, me? I’m hitched. Hitched to the single life.”
XXXVIII
The Cyclops Lies Down
Having said that, the Cyclops turned around
and headed unsteadily over toward a huddle
of ewes and lambs nearby, then spun a little
the way a top wobbles when it slows down,
and halfway through another off-balance lurch
across the cave, his stomach felt the press
of sheep cheese, rich wine, fat meat, and a mess
of chewed up clothing, with a sudden urge
to run to the bathroom. Then the poor fool fell,
fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut
in the Colosseum at a festival.
Down now, without good timing or decor,
drifting off in Morpheus’s boat,
he vomited their dead friends on the floor.
XXXIX
The Chosen Four
Ulysses grabbed the pole and in the flame
twirled the sharp point. “Okay, boys,
he said, “we’re going to have to make a choice:
which of you is staying in this game?”
But one by one his soldiers got loquacious.
They wanted out. Some promised they were able
to slip him a little gift beneath the table;
and others talked about friends in high places.
Like it or like it not, when all talk ended,
all that the lottery threw up were four
pathetic bastards no one ever protected.