The god was not unkind to me, when he
did lay me down, his jokes at my expense
were like a brother's jokes, before he raped me
when I laid there, all trembling, not in awe
I did not bleed, his jests were bad enough,
my ears and cheeks blood-hot, on fire from shame.
Repeated in my ears: hold still, you'll learn
you'll be a woman soon, you'll like this stuff,
His salty breath against my lips. Some god.
He smelled like fish. What would you like, my sweet?
A golden mantle? (hold still, child) A crown?
A dolphin chariot? A fine black pearl?
Fine dresses? (thumbing mine against my side,
he'd shucked it up to paw my bound-up breasts)
I did not want to try his patience then,
in case he left me full of aching holes
and nothing else to show I'd known a god
so I asked him to make me then a man
inviolate to spear and biting blade
no arrow-point to split my hairy skin
and if I loved a man, to not lie down
and let him poke me full of holes again.
'I want to be a hero, gracious god,
with iron thighs and bloody iron cheeks,
no longer fit to be penetrated;
(and death to him who tries, poor wretch, poor wretch!)
Make me here and now a tall-grown man.'
I did not care just then about my parts,
but only that I would not be laid down.
He rumbled laughing, bristling on my throat
I wished that he could die mid-laugh. Some god.
His briny cock hung limp against my leg.
You clever little chit, you've got it planned
but boys are made for love, and so are you.
(It wasn't love he said. Forgive me all this.)
I meant all that I'd asked. I meant a man.
A man could live, and more, a man could fight.
and to Lord Neptune's credit, the old fool
I never did get up a girl again.
He changed my nature when he laid me down.

The boy was always mine. I made no theft.
I even tried to please the child with gifts,
ones sensitive boys like, a brace of doves,
I made such gifts and played him on the lyre
such tender songs as only lovers play.
He hid. He fled from me. He ran.
Off flew the doves, the lyre slipped unstrung,
and I gave chase. I am a man. I hunt.
Achilles, hunter, killer, mad for love.
His throaty cries did something to my blood--
his golden back, the muscles of his thighs
his coltish footfalls, crying father's aid
all drove wrath backward, down into my groin
and left me scalded, throbbing with desire
Dark alchemy, desire's grimmest joke --
all sorts of men get hard after a kill,
how many during? But I digress.
He tried to face me, staggered at the altar,
(he'd hoped for sanctuary in this place
but god, I trust, was with me on this one)
He looked so fair, so wrathful and so young
The little hero. My boy hated me.
I knew it -- blindly, terror in his eyes,
the sweat that streaked his youthful jetty brow
A cornered hare. A snared-up bird. A doe.
But when he spoke he spoke just like a lion--
"Don't touch me. Not in here, you can't. You can't."
"I will," I said, "young lion, yes, I will.
God or no god. It's down to you or me."
He spat at me, and threw his arms around
the figure of the altar, worked in gold.
I would have slit his throat right then and there,
or crushed him with embraces in my arms.
I seized him by the hair and tore him down.
I think he cried throughout. And when I'd done,
I wrung his neck, with hands that burned to touch
him only, to hold him when he shivered.
The little hero. Him I had admired,
and him I could not hold, I held to kill.
When life had left, I wanted all the more.