It seems strange after all this time
to style you “overly ornate”—
Wedgwood Paisley Toile Baroque,
with darker orange dimple
summoning beholders’ eyes
as might a Cubist model’s areolas,
but you brought it on yourself.
So much for centuries of agitprop
depicting you as warriorlike!
No—you’re Edwardian, effete,
Rococo, decorated to appease,
combative Saturn’s poodle-dog!
With your permission, might I
blow you up and make a poster
for our bathroom wall—
where bellicosity would be nocuous?
Is that offensive to your sensibilities,
or threat to masculinity?
Your name’s not really Jupiter?
You’re not a man? Oh, goodness!
Not a god at all, nor parent,
but a solitary narcissist
whose gender’s of no consequence?
Wail till I tell my Mary Ellen!
You are colossal, though—
please tell me that’s correct.
By far our family’s greatest body,
ringed by 67 fawning moons!
Okay. I don’t suppose it matters,
not as far as you’re concerned—
but you should know
you have admirers down here.
We called you God and Father
not for nothing, and by any name
you’ll still loom sweetly in our minds
no matter now vainglorious you are.