Beat me, she said, about the head and shoulders like the mad god you once were. Touch me, hard,
bring me down to earth, bind me there. *
But he wanted to hold her tender, lift her high, pale egg curves toward the moon, slide into her gentle. Ever careful of beak and bill, he only took her some ways, soft as down.
Such a waste, she said.
Such a beautiful waste. * Mid of night, she clipped their wings — his, hers, their egged children — and ate each small, hollow bone. Then she waited *
for the promise of his rage.
About This Poem: I think I’ve had some serious poem burnout for the last few days. I’ve had a really hard time coming up with an idea, much less a poem, that I actually liked. I expect it to keep getting worse before it gets better.
Today’s prompt was heroes. I’m not sure Leda fits, and I know that one of the most famous, most favored poems of all time has been written about this topic (read it here), so it’s not like I’m going to compete. But I was just talking about Leda the other night, and I have a “thing” for her story. Also, I’ve always loved this painting of it by Fred Einaudi, and have always wanted to write about it.
About Poem-A-Day: For the month of April (National Poetry Month), I’ve signed on to write a poem-a-day (eeks!). To make it slightly easier on myself, my rules are that I have to write each poem in fifteen minutes or less, and that I have to post it here on the blog as soon as I’m done. No edits. Just rough. Raw. Right out of the gate. (Of course, if you’re playing along, I hope you’ll post a link to your poem in the comments here — mainly because I’m selfish and I want to read them!)