Poem XXXII: The Moons of Mars

PHOBOS and DEIMOS
the two small
misshapen moons of Mars
of Ares and Aphrodite
the offspring
busy little monster babies
horrible-eyed
their skulls always getting bashed in
by asteroids

PANIC and TERROR
they stay always at hand
bent on their orbit
always cutting their busy path
through bloody battle
at their father's feet
the war-god
Ares

you can tell
the mother left their raising to him

Poem VI: DADDY’S GOAT MAGIC

All I have do is speak a word

and the goats come running;

I say it again, at a whisper,

and they follow.

The woods grow silent in our wake.

The children aren’t into it.

In fact it seems to them ill-omened

for dad to be communing thus with goats,

with them talking

and into the forest walking.

But dad employs

defensive magic only

to preserve the farm

and keep his boys from harm

nevertheless, it’s no joke:

because these goats

are psychic imperialists.