didn’t believe it all—that he’d betray
Minos and end his rule, Pasiphaë
would help the Athenians escape by sea,
and Phaedra, intent on setting her brother free,
would starve inside the labyrinth, after a red
spool she’d receive would yield dissolving thread.
Before he left, Hupakoë desired
to find out why the poet, so inspired
he could foretell the fate of everything,
couldn’t forestall his own dismembering.
The head replied: The rumors you may’ve heard
about my life are errors or absurd
fables. I never saw a single rock
move when I played the lyre—or trees flock
around me. When still fit for procreation,
I never tried the Cretan innovation:
I’d let the foulest hussy sip my seed
before I’d learn the joys of Ganymede.
The rumors aren’t completely false, however:
I saw how Hades governs and was clever
enough to make it back here, but I’d never
go to such lengths to rescue one dead wife.
I can’t deny my neck has felt a knife,
but it wasn’t wielded by those wild
women who worship the drunk god who smiled
at his pirate captors—the god whose priests attend
me here as I proclaim how things will end—
the greatest god, born from a femoral sac
after Zeus dyed his mother’s spread lap black.

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