It was fortunate for the Mother -
though in the end it was not,
a King cannot forgive a tryst
with a God Bull, no matter how
hard the full moon presses down
upon the earth, a palm pressed between
willing thighs, stirring desire; hot tea,
blown first then carefully sipped
in a summer stung by the scorpion sun -
that Androgeus was not
born with his horns fully formed.
It did not help him either,
however, for the hooves for feet
gave away the fact that Midas
was not the sower of the seed.
The Mother, still bruised and torn
by the hard heels of her son as he kicked
his way into sunlight, was slain outright.
It may even be that she was glad;
granted relief from the haunting
of that night. Her body ached
with the memory of the Bull’s embrace.
Androgeus was banished down the stairs
to a moonless, sunless cellar,
where water dripped taunting whispers
and the stone drank itself dense
with the indifference of the earth,
there to live out his days chained
to the wall, food fed between thick lips,
and placed upon fat tongue
by young virgins stolen from other lands.
The females served two purposes.
Their theft made other lands fear his Father
and the tips of the girls’ fingers, when
they brushed his flesh, their scent
as they drew close, and the fear that formed
in tiny bead of sweat upon their innocent
brows, tormented Androgeus no end.
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