Workshop

Workshop 

“In our village, folk say God crumbles up the old moon into stars.”

“Crumble the moon into stars. Why?”

“Well, can’t you understand?” said Shukhov. “The stars fall down now and then. The gaps have to be filled.”

• Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich 

…

There is no Sabbath. 

Apollo stretches his fingers into the skies and plucks a dying moon. 

It is grey and withering. 

A rotten apple coated silver. His mouth waters. 

He restrains himself. A great thunder echoes,

Stirring slightly only the most restless of sleepers. 

It shatters into brilliant rays, and silver specks

Lend timid illumination of darkness. 

He reaches into his pocket. A new moon. 

Ares groans as he smells his quota of blood. 

15 regional conflicts. 9 civil wars. 2 special military operations. 

1 genocide. Due. Next quarter. 

Orchestrating so much with so little. How ought 

He coerce feebles to sharpen iron and draw fire, 

Shepherding children and mothers into shoddy bomb shelters?

He stares down at his hands and feet. They are cold. 

Aphrodite and Artemis squabble over the preemptive consummation of two lovers. 

“Can you stop them?”

“Not my fault.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I have my job and you have yours. Leave them be.” 

“I have a quota to fill. These two are under my jurisdiction.” 

“Quotas change, Artemis!” 

“That’s being unreasonable. They were going so well until you came along.” 

And so on. 

Zeus and his ever-watchful gaze blanket the heavens. 

Not one to step out of line. Not one quota unfulfilled. 

Not a single job undone. 

He, of course, the best supervisor. And takes all the credit for it. 

Atlas hears another crack in his spine. 

He tightens his hold, and

Tears a half-bitter grin. 

There is no Sabbath. 

26 February 2024