Cursed with curiosity, dear Papa
I cannot help but wonder
If Hera bought your story?
That crippled bitter cuckold of a man
made me? Fashioned these exquisite folds,
smooth curves and pungent juices?
Surely, Hera’s noticed
how my ears are shaped.
How prettily they frame
the flawless pearls my uncle gave
when all the gods were gifting. Only one
Olympic head displays such handsome
symmetry or dangles crafted gold
from such distinctive flaps of flesh.
I know of desperate men who sell their daughters
to feed the empty mouths of younger kin.
But you! Empurpled emperor of rage,
whose unslaked hunger for revenge
demands a daughter, renege
on every promise, every loving word…
How often have you mouthed these protestations,
coarse beard tickling, strong arms tossing,
deep voice rumbling secrets I must never tell?
WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MOTHER?
You’ve done your worst.
Thrown me at Epimetheus
never guessing your own brother
is capable of care. Oh yes, he tutors me.
Instructs me. Edifies and clarifies
the twisted labyrinth that passes
as your mind.
You forced Hermes to bestow
this curse, this blessing,
this unabating dreadful need to KNOW
why, what, when, who and how.
My reputation’s ruined
my sex defamed
my mind addicted.
There’s nothing left
Runs in the blood, dear Papa.
Watch your back.
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