Aphrodite Pieta

It did not matter who had sent the boar.
There was no vengeance in her. Only tears
fall where a tentative red bud appears
drops of his blood turned flower. Nothing more

not even wailing. Silence. In her lap
he lay. Fierce tusks had torn the youth. A shred
of gut nearby at random. He was dead
before she heard him scream. And yet the sap

still rises in the cedars, and the corn
that died as seed is growing in the fields.
She knows as goddess the next harvest’s yields
will fill the granaries. He’ll be reborn

The streams of Lebanon in springtime flood
bring fields fertile red soil. Adonis’ blood.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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