Et in Arcadia ego

What God grew wild in me
spirit could not contain.
His little hooves thrust free
to dance again; wild hooves,
gold-flecked, that labor finally
brought to light. Glorious,
I clutched him weeping, could
not bear the sight. His head
still slick, I gave him to a girl,
went raving through fields awhirl
with hyssop. Charmed, I go still
with much weeping, honeyed
tears. In the belly of this world
or on the heights, is there anything
more terrifying than he? Cold
light, keen hooves, stark purity.

—Alicia Cole