Of course it was awful, what he did, chopping
up his son to serve him in a stew to the gods,
confused somehow about sacrifice.
After that, the gods never let Tantalus be nourished again.
He was forever made to stand in a pool of water
beneath a fruit tree, its branches low hanging.
And whenever her reached to eat the fruit, sweet and ripe,
the branches would rise. And whenever he tried to drink,
the clear water would recede.
There are many kinds of prisons. Some
have iron bars, cement walls. Some deprive
you of your senses. But the gods knew some look like paradise.
Haven’t we all been confused before?
Haven’t we all made misguided sacrifice?
I’m not trying to defend Tantalus. I’m just saying
we all understand hunger. And no matter how many times
the branch is taken away, it is survival to want the fruit,
to reach, to reach again.
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