I have slipped from our tourist caravan
in Ostia, discovered this outskirt
hillside cave, challenge its pitch black entrance,
drawn by horrid cries deep within; convert
my penlight to guide, and follow its shine
over narrow path past curved crystalloid
halls to a sudden spelaean, slate-lined
walls and floor. A strong, howling boy—eyes void
of fear—mounts a great bull, rips its glottis
with short, sharp sword. In the corner, a lad
with like weapon slashes his own testes,
screams, Cybele! Cybele! Both gods, clad
with Phrygian caps, turn toward me and stare.
Knowing them, I drop to knees, rasp a prayer.
Roger Armbrust
March 15, 2008
