Ganymedes makes a trip
to the convenient store
because he has run out
of condoms. A crisis he realized
with barely five minutes to go
before the arrival
of stately Heracles
at his apartment. The gym session
ended sooner than he expected; the new drug
must have worked. He can feel his veins
rushing with god-like energy
in his imagination
as he walks past rows of
peanut-butter jars and zucchini pickles,
intent on the perfect fit
of rubber. No ribs this time, he thinks, thinner,
and the old lube needs
replacement. Heracles, Heracles… the name
twists inside him
like wet tongue; he can almost smell
the faint memories
of his bubble butt
rising up towards him from the
yet-to-be-stained sheets,
like a crest of wave
muscling out from sea
to swallow him alive, to lead him
into the deep stillness
broken by carolling
of mermen
who have stripped
down to their scales
in the heat
of their meth-white ecstasies.
Courage, my darling, courage.
Thus spoke graceful Athene,
as she emblazoned these words
upon the skin, the eternal red dusk
of their love.
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