Acorns and goats milk, honey from the comb,
the small sour grapes and olives of the hills,
he never ate the sort of food that fills
you up, It’s not as if they ate at home,
his mother and her sisters. Gods eat cloud
and air and wind, though also pick at stuff
at random in the hills. He never got enough
to eat, poor demigod. He cried aloud
perfect High C from hunger, didn’t know
what he was feeling. His wife changed all that.
She found him almost starved, and got him fat.
Their love was flesh, and poems. They would go
eat and make love. And he would lie in bed
writing ecstatic odes to sex and bread.