I want to speak about bodies that changed into new forms. And you,
gods, who altered them… -Ovid
Zeus walks by in a three-piece suit,
smelling like ozone, casual thunder,
money. You remember how he came
to you in the apple orchard, bright
face of a boy, swan feathers in
his hair, how fingers skimmed your
skin and you cried when he crawled
inside. Now his silhouette has shifted,
hard-nosed and high-cheeked, trunk
of marble, feet of stone. Silver
cufflinks separate the animal from
the man. And no, you don’t want
to talk about bodies that change forms,
or the lightning in flesh bottles keeping
them there. The conqueror storms
through glass office doors, ignores
your complaints, knowing he’ll never
sweat or bleed, tear or be changed, not
like you have.
