You cannot hear the weeping of the god
Over the Pyrrhic rains –

The ecstatic drumming of water on dogwood
Drowns the heaven born child.

Spring turns the bracken to ram’s horns
And the god’s mouth is pale with milk.

When its breasts are emptied
The animal is flayed and sown with seed.

Her body is a constellation –
More wound than glowing matter.

But still the child’s fingernails grow in spirals
And circle her in tender dances.