The Lupercal

Romulus, Remus, suckle in the dark

Lupercal, teething mother she-wolf’s

Tumescent dug, tiny hands groping rough

Blood-matted fur, belly cold in the dark

Lupercal, the walls perspire deep

Into the craggy teeth of the dank,

Humid grotto, fingers seek in the dark

A blood-clotted bulb, and quietly weep

Alone. While others wring a final jet

Of warm sour milk from a spent teat,

He sobs, knowing the world will not have

Him. A child of morning will come forth,

A child of noise, of battle, of glory, of death.

The other, supine, will dream in a shallow grave.