In another century
I was a girl of a certain flavor
grown to twist and pruned to bear
a fruit never eaten, only pressed.
You were the satyr,
the goat-song in the convent, a
dovecote of vestals who cooed as you
taught them to break their glass vows.
At the bacchanal we all danced
indifferent to stares of the Keres. You stole
the god's thyrsos and wound it with lamb's ear,
soft and treacle sweet as your smile.
That cup that was
filled then to overflowing
is broken now, but too late, I think
for those who've already drunk.
earthweal's Open Link
thyrsos: a staff or wand of fennel used in Hellenic ceremonies, espec. Dionysius ~wikipedia
Keres: female death spirits who roamed freely during the yearly Athenian festival of Anthestria .~wikipedia
Images: Wine glasses, author unknown, via Sunday Muse Fair UseMarble relief of a maenad and two satyrs in a Bacchic procession. AD 100, British Museum Public Domain