To A Garden Priapus

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Anonymous, The Greek Anthology, vi, 22

To Priapus, his due,
these things
the garden yields up
in his merry image —

The new-burst sphere
     of a pomegranate,
          spilling seed,

a quince boy-beautiful
     with finest down,
the alluring fig,
     skin ever-wrinkled,

grapes fat and tight
in purple clusters,
ready to yield
a flood of wine,

walnut just out
of its green rind,
testicular.

Rude god carved out
of a lightning-felled
oak, accept these offerings!

 

 

Her Little Apples

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Paulus Silentarius, The Greek Anthology, vi, 290

She sent him home with two apples,
rosy red. Her mother watched
but missed their secret gaze as eyes
outlined the apples, hand to hand.

What wizardry she worked,
ensorcelling desire so that,
alone, his hands trace ’round
and ’round the apples’ edges,
eyes closed, the curve of her —

The Dociles

 by Brett Rutherford

It was almost as if
they had been raised
among animals. Grunts
and nods, a finger pointed
toward an open mouth
requiring nourishment,

shivers and groans,
monosyllabic shouts
of want or warning
seem all they possess.

They walk among us,
not Homo habilis,
not Sapiens, not even
Neanderthal. Vessels
to fill with anything
the masters wish.

They go where ordered.
They pour themselves
into hats and uniforms.
If told to push, they push.
If given an axe or knife,
they figure out its use.

Flash a white light
into their dull eyes
and they stop and wait
for further orders,
whom to hate, and whom
to strike or kill.

No need for robots
or costly programs
apt to rebel or fail.
The Dociles beget
their own copies:
millions are here,
and millions more to come.

In the time ahead,
when the earth no longer
sustains the human horde
the masters will no longer
require their services
or yearn for their virgin daughters.

They all have guns. Turn one
against another and it is done.
The call will go
through TV antenna
to every trailer park.

As no one regrets
the crushed lantern fly,
none will miss them, either.

 

Cosmology

by Brett Rutherford

There was an instant
amid the blinding heat
of Chaos, when
the first proton popped
into existence. 

Later it met up
with the first electron
(more an enslavement
than a partnership
as it was doomed
to circle the proton
and never touch it.) 

This set
the cosmic matrix
and more came,
and more, and more,
each one as arrogant
as the first, each one
believing itself
first and foremost. 

Be certain:
atoms do not like
one another, repel
except where bound
by their dainty electrons,
whom they exchange
like worn-out mistresses. 

Not one of them
calls itself anything.
Nameless, inviolate,
eternal, invisible. 

Do not bow down
to cosmic monsters
made up of atoms only.
One is the same
as another.  

Not one of them cares
what you think of it.