Consent
The real epic poem
Lies in the secret journey of the unnamed man who
When turned into a pig by the dread goddess Circe
Discovered that he liked a life of grunts and bristled hair
Too ashamed to say, don't change me back I don't want to go home
He cried with the rest.
His tears were shed for his human body, its muscles and obligations
Relaxing, this existence close to the ground, catching food gratefully from her fingers
His tears were shed for the open space, for the discus cutting the air
He had never liked watching the boys spin, shivering
Never liked "she my wife" intermingled intermarriage
This, simple, this, pure, this, boarish, sublimely so.
Do not make me leave this cozy pen
And return to the wine-dark see with these men
I am sick of aimless sailing, I am sick of the wrath of the gods
Keep me, please, among your delicate weavings
I will sleep warm on these rugs at night
And serve you, Dread Circe, Beautiful Circe, by day
I am no warrior, no hero. Give me dates and an open palm.
A cozy cage to drowse away in
At last, sanctuary, here