The medallion silvers in the Vestal’s hand,
caught in a trickle of light. Music murmurs
from the lips of her attendants, turtlenecked
with linen, offsetting the shadow of her cleavage,
untouchable in its public exhibition.
She takes the offered hammer, tiny as her thumb,
taps the ceremonial fixation, chain of office
for the final victor, fingernails still black-caked
with rivals’ blood.
Whether he is prepared for fire and temptation,
whether his hunger will be satisfied,
and translate from slaughter into glory,
the Vestal neither knows nor speculates,
closely and only following the order of the chant,
the blow, the turnabout. As passed down
through darkness and blazing sun, as rehearsed
and pre-ordained, only these matter to her.
He bows his neck for the burden, his cropped
and phallic head awaits the encirclement of her arms,
the secret obscenity which only her lips can speak.
The warning that he is a man, will one day die.