Polyphemus, I’ve tried to reason with
you, explain how Galatea’s just one
Nereid finning barebosomed (no myth,
she) through the blue Mediterranean.
But you keep changing course, bitch how Thoosa
deserted you, spew bitter memories
as you munch on my men. Now you choose a
tenth cup of Alcinous’s wine to ease
your torment. Grow blind with drink. Soon we’ll char
your single eye to assure darkness, smile
as you crawl the cave, raging of how you’re
no man’s victim. I’ll sail off, shout for miles
my name, and how I took it on the lam
by caressing the belly of a ram.
Roger Armbrust
January 8, 2009
