Cradling it to his belly –
to where a womb would be –
the Spartan Son held it still,
concealing it in clothing.

His Father smiled down.

Feeling whiskers dust him,
the Son smiled back.

(It bit a door in his skin
tearing in,
penetrating the quiet wound, pulling
its pink, snake tail through.
Like a hand in a sock, it filled his gut,
then squeezed with ulcerous steps
to the stomach.
It burned to his spine,
then climbed, rung by rung –
stopping to grapple the heart,
stroking and groping with delicate paws.
It tugged on his tendons, clenching his hands;
its swell in his neck cracked his voice;
its squeak wore his teeth, and the water it made
seeped through forehead and lip.
Grinning, it entered his skull,
eye beads trained on the matter.
Scouring it hollow and dry, it nested,
awaiting a lover.

He’d seek to spook it with moving soon,
to poison it with wine,
to sate it with night flesh.
Trying to draw this horror out,
he’d quarter himself in the city square.)

The Father smiled.
The Son kept smiling back.