The greedy fingers feast upon her flesh
And quench their thirst on tears that never fall.
Black, wild hair swirls through his diadem,
And Cerberus, three headed, stands and howls
With one mouth only as his master claims
The prize. And she, the daughter of the fields,
Cries madly of her noble lineage
To no avail. He holds her fiercely, clasps
Her to his chest. Prepares to take her down
To his grey home. And when she leaves the land
Will miss her sore. The fields will not yield grain
Nor will the olive, favored by her sister,
Ripen, nor the grapes weigh down the vine
To honor Bacchus. Now, he grasps her, grips
Her in his hands. Perhaps if I but knew
The price I’ll pay, I’d rush out to her aid,
And pry his chubby fingers from her thighs.
Her tears and bruises would subside in time,
No pomegranite seed would pass her lips.
The chisel stopped the scene, in marble cast,
So I could save myself from all to come.
Yet I do not. Deep, coal black furrows will
Stand fallow when the god has taken her
Beneath the stones. But now the goddess fights.
The flowers have not tumbled from her hair,
Nor has the garment fallen from her back,
And Pluto’s scepter lies between his feet,
Forgotten as he wrestles with his prize.
His muscles strain and veins leap from his thighs.
His fleshy talons claw into her skin,
As I stand by in awe and watch the rape,
This living marble holds me in its thrall.
A voyeur to the act, and thus condemned
To suffer Ceres’ wrath in winter snows.