The Foothills Of Olympus

“There’s a rip in your stocking,” I said.

She said, “Yes, the gods will strike me dead
if I’m perfect. The gods get jealous.”

“I thought,” I said, “Zeus just gets zealous,
turns into a swan and then rapes you.”

“Hera finds out,” she said, “right on cue
and turns me into a flower or fish
or constellation as if my wish
was to get fucked, get raped, by a bird.”

For a bit we didn’t say a word.

I said, “Can I, umm, buy you dinner?”

“Are you Zeus looking for a sinner?”

“I can honestly say I’m no god.”

“Mortal’s good,” she said. “You get my nod.”