(the house of Cadmus)
It’s the children nail your heart
to the planet, so that’s
how you nail them back.
Alcmena in labor
for seven days. Think of the man
who thought up the goddess
who thought of that.
And pregnant
Semele, stupid with pride, consumed
by the flames she had the gall
to ask for, though
I ought to have known
that wouldn’t be the end of it. Who’ll
rid me of the turbulent mess that comes
attached to a womb?
That’s always been
their fantasy. As witness Minerva,
sprung from his head. Or Dolly the sheep,
or IVF. Or this one,
absurdly
sewn up in a thigh. Not only have you long
outlived your function, you
were never required
in the first place. Still,
I have my ways. In this particular
instance, the child was finally born as a god,
I couldn’t touch him.
But we’re not
a race best known for our restraint.
If you’re willing to think on a larger scale,
there’ll always be an angle.
Some
bright child of a child of the single
house that sponsored all my torment.
Whose
sweet skull plates hadn’t
a chance in the world against that rock.
You invented me, brother, now
you have to live with me.