by Brett Rutherford
after Palladus, Greek Anthology V, 257.
Last night I saw Zeus --
my eyes hurt, flashed
as they were with a glint
of his visage. Oh yes,
I averted my view,
but no other one
than the boss of Olympus
left Lydia's bedroom
just as her candle dimmed
and a rooster, premature,
announced that rosy-
fingered morning to come.
Now Lydia's no Leda,
Danae or Europa.
No swan flew off,
no bull destroyed
her household gods
as he made a new door
to the back garden,
and no umbrella
was needed as Zeus
slipped out solidly.
Virgin princesses get
raging bulls and birds
puffed out with feathers,
or the warm inflow
of golden waters --
Lydia, the commonest
of common women,
for whom courtesan
is too polite a term,
she gets a rag-robed
shaggy old man,
counting out coppers
as he negotiates
how long, and at what
angle they engaged.
Only his eyes, cerulean
gave him away
as he slunk off after.
Hera would never suspect.
Gods here in Greece
are too close for comfort.
