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.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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4 Responses to

  1. snakey says:

    Omg, I love this. *cuddles own wife*

  2. tsubaki_ny says:

    How on earth do you do this, Roz? And so consistently???

    Filled with awe and appreciation over here… POSSIBLY some extreme intense envy as well. Maybe. Perhaps. 😉

  3. noirrosaleen says:

    What demigod is this?

    Your usual brilliant work. ^_^

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