Hephaestus as Midwife

I prefer the steady growl and even temper

Of the furnace to Zeus’ wounded howls,

Rumbling the depths of my mountain,

And would have remained in my workshop

—Hermes’ plea be damned—but my chisels

And tongs began clattering to the floor,

And I can’t abide the clutter. Above, looking

For the king, I find a nerve-shattered mess

Writhing on the floor, forehead bulging

With the thrust of spear and helm,

Fingers worming beneath his cheeks.

I force a fine cypress wedge in his mouth,

Take pleasure in parting his teeth like pebbles

Before a ship’s grinding prow. Does he note,

Through his agony, the wood’s faint stag scent?

Its taste like grief on the tongue? I shoulder

My hammer and glance at Mother’s stony face,

Hold her stare as the iron head falls

And my sister strides forth into the world

In damp-slick armor, as Zeus’ cropped skull

Rolls across the tile like a melon rind.