Father Saturn

Kronos bloodied his teeth 

with soft fruit

of his sister's womb:

in his honor we name time.

I don't care to moralize.

Goya saw a desperate animal

blurred in oils

gnawing the arm

of a headless ochre infant.

A son of prophecy 

is stripped of choice,

hungry and naked.

The animal is a force

and never an agent.

We choose our gods:

the force of wind,

the bite of a dog,

the harvest of spring,

and none of them have a say. 

In myth we dress up fact

in the fine linens of flesh.

In time we make a father

to eat us all whole.