Old Mutunus, old Priapos, 
stands in the kitchen garden
carved in marble
keeping the crows at bay

man-sized, man-shaped,
with an engorged phallus,
eternally aroused,
eternally unsatisfied,
eternally ready
to plow something,
be it a field or a woman;

the owners of the villa have chiseled
a warning into his base
that intruders should fear 
getting fucked by him
in retribution for their trespass,

but inside their house,
a mural on their wall 
shows the god weighing his cock
against a bushel of vegetables
taken from the garden,
and smiling when he finds
that the vegetation weighs more.

The mural’s worn
where hands have pressed for luck
against the head of his shaft —
he’s a peaceful sort of god, 
our Priapos in his Phrygian cap;
wouldn’t you be, too,
if the world you dwelled in smelled
of good, turned earth
and green, growing things,
and the warm scent of sweat on skin
as your people toil around you
pulling weeds and pinning vines?

[Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her award-winning poetry and prose has appeared in over seventy journals, including F&SF, Asimov’s, Analog, and Lightspeed.For more about her work, including her Elgin-nominated poetry collections, The Gates of Never and Bounded by Eternity, and her chapbook, From Voyages Unreturning, see www.deborahldavitt.com.  For her podcast, see www.youtube.com/@ShiningMoonSpeculativeFiction.]