As Ganymede Pleases

As Ganymede pleases

the Gods, the stars, that white marble plaster –

amongst your body he eases

cast in offensive alabaster.

Wine-ringed mouth and hawkish nose,

mortal Adonis, shivering stone:

glass beads of sweat, tobacco, rose

roll languidly on your armchair-throne.

Groaning leather, stretch your aching spine

and each much-adored finger spread.

Soft underbelly, that dimple's mine –

scraped knee, innocent where you bled.

Tired of the endless waiting;

take off your jacket, take off your shoes.

Youthful saint, masochistic aching,

always the sadist, never the muse.

Later then, when the world disappeared

your body still roused in dreams:

even if language obscured, words unclear

a throaty sigh, an empty scream.

Smoulder in dark city streets still – 

your rites easing off, all temples explored:

so there’s nothing left, not even will

for lusty Ares, twenty-first century bored.

Lips shaped like a kiss in total prayer

Darling Eros, pampered son.

Perspiring, hungry, wet threads of your hair;

desire fought you and desire won.

All libations offered – honey, wine, milk – 

to another notch in your bedpost.

It means nothing to you, loyal slave in silk,

the Ganymede I loved the most.

(Written in 2023...I think? Possibly very early 2024 in my first year CW class again.)