“Remember who you are,” whispers the God beneath the tripod,
breath of late autumn leaves and loamy soil,
animal heat and wine that is velvety smooth upon the tongue.
His voice is dark and slow,
like blood that drips down the side of a smoky altar,
and mysteries about which no man may speak.
His eyes embers smoldering
behind a blank, expressionless mask
and his smile devouring.
His words stir a secret longing in your breast,
for breezes thick with pine scent and winter
that play with your loosened hair
as you dance and howl back his name into the night black sky
on the side of the mountain
where your seething sisters gather,
and have gathered since the days of Deukalion, sailor of the wine-dark sea.
A longing for fawnskin and the sound of thyrsoi striking stones
in the dance that swirls like flame in the hearth,
bare feet slapping out the frenzied rhythm of the beating heart
of the bull who shakes the earth while the chorus of fiery stars wheel and spiral overhead
in the dance,
all together in the dance,
in the dance
is where you discover his question’s answer.
