Lost in the library of Alexandria, proof
Selene the moon goddess mocked Apollo
her sun god twin, each mocking the other
about mortal offsprings—
off-summers, off-autumns, off-winters.
More than ‘divine,’ an inadequate human word
for speaking about gods, all words
are mostly useless. A messenger whispered,
‘That’s why prayers and sacrifice were invented.’
Without Apollo, simple daylight, music
and poetry, nothing on earth lives.
Beautiful beyond belief, Selene spent years
in front of her mirrors, the oceans,
so close to the earth, she said the breathing
of humans and animals sometimes kept her awake.
Crashing a feast of the gods, a mortal boy
in rapture surrendered to Selene,
who gave birth to another moonchild.
Apollo and other gods remembered
Selene had fifty daughters with Endymion.

What fools call ‘twenty years’ passed,
the moonchild, male or female,
had a lover—pity the darling who held close
a celestial body, equally at home
on earth or sky—half a night or day,
especially since that moonchild in turn
might have a child, more mortal now
than half moon, but still mooning,
playing in the park among other children
with everyday faces.

Put the case: Apollo and a mortal beauty
could have twins that brighten the darkest room
or forest, who fight as brothers and sisters
to prove who is father or mother’s favorite—
neither so naughty to challenge Apollo at music.
At night, the children would weep for their father,
busy with godly affairs.
The poor mortal mother mostly in the kitchen
preparing meals, finally insisted on her right
to be Jew, Christian, or Muslim
or better still, she said to the sun god, ‘all three!’

Today I heard the sun laugh, I swear I heard
happy thunder, thunder without anger or lightning,
and the moon laughing like Sarah
hiding behind a cloud’s curtain.