Leda

Her flesh flushed full
for god in form of bird,
the only beast able to bear
the brunt of such ferocity.
She was not made for men.

They required gentler, softer things,
the kind of things that
wrapped up nicely, things
without bristles or thorns,
hides soft as butter,
as malleable and forgiving.

Their jealous, inadequate minds
imagined her passion parried, 
pinned by webbed claws, pictured
her violated by a beak—unable 
to recognize she needed feathers
to tame her, the fold of two
vast wings to lift her up.
 
What they named Zeus’s lust
could only be her absolution.

_