She stood in a gazebo in the park
wearing a modified wedding dress
over her bluejeans
since there was still a chill in the air
this early in the year, a crown of daisies
and ribbons whipped about
by the gaily dancing breezes,
as she read from a red leather-bound
book of Orphic Hymns
and then sang a song of Bowie’s
to rouse the Fruitful God on Lenaia morn,
and free him from his long winter’s dreaming
deep beneath the earth.
And when she was done
she poured out a bottle of sweet Gewürztraminer
onto the pile of penis-shaped honey cakes
she’d set at the base of the linden tree,
and then walked home in the rain,
singing and laughing
in the presence of Ariadne’s sweet man,
bull-horned leader of the chorus of fiery stars,
and eager for a long day of drinking and games.