The sun himself my father, you would slander me
that I lay with the ocean’s bulls, not even his stallions,
my son a monster by his sire.

You cannot even claim him,

cannot countenance that such a beast is yours.

Instead you give me sin to hide your greed,
that you would keep what you should sacrifice,
cast the weight of your rare insult onto me
since women cannot rule their lust.
Not like you men, with your young gods.

Ask your mother of that.

She gave us monsters of her own.

All the same he is called for you, his father.
History will remember that, if nothing else of us.

[Erica Ruppert lives in northern New Jersey with her husband and an
assortment of over-indulged pets. She  teaches, bakes, runs,
reads and writes many odd things. She has previously been published in Rose
Red Review, Caesura, and Bookends Review.]

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