Mar/Apr 2016 • Vol. XXXVIII No. 2 PoetryMarch 1, 2016 |

Zeus and Hera

From the Slovenian.   In antiquity the tendrils of a vine had symbolic meaning. They were the curls in Zeuss beard. Poseidon had to assemble his stool alone. He joked and called names and then dashed below the typical level of the Ionian Sea so he could steal sunken Phoenician amphorae. Hera banged a table with her legs and in pure rage issued a decree: Nationalize the Mediterranean basin! Golden crates pounced on the olive branches. A red mohair sweater fluttered from Olympus to Athenian saunas. But Poseidon stored water by the stairs, stepped onto the chopping block and with a whip slashed the fat bellies of decadents who night and day sucked boys' tender penises. Their thighs caught fire. Sawdust fluttered from their mouths. Between the speck and the speck of sawdust, he again hung the tendrils of a vine so they would acquire symbolic meaning.

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