Each morning grandpa tills that field of stars;
I wake to blazing, cussing cuts of sun.
Four horses gallop races never won,
then kiss his whip and thank him for the scars.
When clouds swing low he’s smoking his cigars,
but I can hold my breath until he’s done.
I know his friends throw lightning just for fun,
know thunder’s just another deal of cards.
If shadows fall, they’re from my mama’s grasp.
Sometimes she curses wharf men with warm fish;
sometimes she blesses fish and wolves with whores.
She carries torches, loves the snake that clasps
her gilded neck. She left my father with
a child and other silly mortal chores.
From: https://www.passagesnorth.com/archives/issue-29/helios-hecate
Date: 2008
By: Sandra Beasley (1980- )
From Troubles of The World 