Unlucky Number

by Brett Rutherford

Who would have thought
that the unluckiest digit
was the tiny number Two?

Pythagoras said One
was unity or god,
a thing impossible to break
into constituent parts,

whereas the dreaded
number Two spelled out
diversity and struggle,
disorder and strife,
the root of all evil.

The Romans,
respecting always
the wisest Greeks,
were in accord.

Hold up two fingers
or stop your count
of anything at Two,
was like an evil eye,
or spitting at heaven.

Romans began the year
with One, the month of Mars,
then shuddered, cold,
through all of Two,
the month of Pluto,
when every chill wind
seemed to issue from Hades.

On Day Two of Month Two,
the Manes, unquiet shades
of ancestors neither blessed
nor damned, the walkers
at the edge of Hades, blow

up on night winds to haunt
the Roman graveyards,
unearthing bone and urn,
knocking about the little
household gods on the hearth,
engendering migraines
and mis-shapen births.

Walk on that day,
two fingers up on left,
two fingers up on right,
avoiding monuments,
not saying the names
of the departed. Eat
sparingly and take no salt,

pass water in all four
directions, and fail not
to complete each sentence
once begun, lest you lose
your tongue altogether.

At sunset, chant, Dis Manibus,
Dis Manibus, and pray
that no unquiet ghost answers.

Until the next day's dawning,
sleep not as two
entwined with wife or lover:

On the night of the Manes
each one must sleep alone
just as the dead ashes sleep
in their gloomy vaults below.

The Jupiter-Saturn Great Conjunction

by Brett Rutherford

Goya: Saturn Devouring His Children

Two giants approach, their masses swollen
with age and pride. One, facing us, will pass
before the other, back turned in scornful
enmity. Rings peep like ears from Saturn
as Jupiter and all his companion
satellites take pride of place and orbit.

Back turned to Saturn-Cronos, his father,
Jupiter calls out in scorn: “You, frozen,
turgid in your ever-colder banishment,
you almost ate me once.” No answer comes.

He turns his eye outward, now, accusingly:
“You swallowed my brothers and sisters.
Have you at long last no guilt for your crimes?”
From icy outer rings a bell-tone stirs;
a moon peeps from behind the old planet,
but Saturn, as ever, utters nothing.

Though all was settled long eons ago,
there is no end to conspiracies:
Saturn has eighty-two satellites still
contesting the Olympian election,
clinging to lies and a tyrant’s coat-tails,
while Jupiter is the acknowledged king
with only seventy-nine companions.

“They love me,” boasts Jupiter, “and I, them,
while you have only courtiers bound by dread.”
Now, squinting at sun with his one red eye,
the king of worlds winces as gravity
ever so slightly tugs him back Saturn-ward

and the sullen, yellow-brown cannibal
shrugs, its face and brow inscrutable, its moons
ice-cracked with slogans braying how Jupiter
was not a proper god and the Olympians
were better locked up in their father’s belly,
a fit prison for ill-born imposters.

Nothing will come of the great conjunction,
for the gods as they are, on their planets
wage an incessant strife. Wait twenty years —
it is the same story told once again.
Avert your gaze from Saturn’s armory,
shun Mars and his war-cry. Venus, for love;
fleet Mercury for gods’ inspiration;
Sun ever-rising with beneficent rays;
Moon, the world’s clock with tidal urgings,
and Earth itself, shelter to demigods
and Muses: abide if not obey them,
and leave to Titans the terrors of war.