The Roman God of Agriculture Saturn eats his son’s head first, next gorges on an arm. The child hangs in Saturn’s grasp, naked and limp. The corpse doesn’t look childlike, with muscles defined as if already grown to manhood, but the story goes that Saturn ate his infant children. Look at his eyes with irises, bullet holes within the sclera. He stares stupidly into his wild haired future fueled by the tang of vernal blood and consumes his only happiness. At the Museo del Prado, surrounded by gold trim and black lacquer, Saturn crushes warm bones in his maw before us in real time, but we swear we’d never do something so gross, and move on, once again. Melinda Thomsen Melinda Thomsen is the author of Armature from Hermit Feathers Press, and her chapbooks Naming Rights and Field Rations are from Finishing Line Press. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, New York Quarterly, Poetry East, Tar River Poetry, The Comstock Review, among others. She lives in North Carolina and you can find her on Twitter at @ThomsenMelinda or at www.melindathomsen.com
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October 2024
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