in the bull favored by the herd’s beauties.
Daedalus worked alone. His nephew’s duties
were limited to minor chores, like sweeping
sawdust and stopping passers-by from peeping
inside the workshop. Daedalus would take
credit for this invention, though the fake
cow made its debut at midnight, pushed
by the Athenians into grass it smooshed
but couldn’t bite or swallow. Long before
sunrise awoke her cherished herbivore,
Pasiphaë beheld the wooden vessel
atop the meadow where she’d seen him nestle
with living cows. The queen removed her dew-
soaked robe, and her all-female retinue
helped her inside the cow and shut the lid.
When they were certain she could breathe, they hid
in a nearby grove and watched. Pasiphaë
first realized she had no way to flee
when the pine flanks echoed and the herd lowed near.
The eyeholes were ornamental: she could hear
but couldn’t see the cattle circling her.
It was no challenge for the maids to lure
the cowherds to the grove. The cattle grazed
unsupervised. The white bull was amazed
that such a lovely cow could join the herd
without his noticing. But soon absurd
odors dispelled the lust his eyes contracted:
all-too-human sweat and breath compacted
with perfume any real cow would despise.