For forty days the dark, torrential rains
came pouring down; we’d brought substantial grain
aboard, were prepared for the worst,
but after several months, the hold reeked like a sty,
and still the raging waters continued to rise.
The ravenous griffins were first.
No contest there. Yet they were sincerely surprised
to find their guardians, too, were carnivores.
They made a commendable roast.
The dragons followed next. The day before
they’d feasted on our Keryneian hinds,
incinerating them in their flaming breaths,
leaving behind only golden antlers and the brazen feet.
(Moreover, fires on arks can pose serious threats.)
The Criosphinx (the ram-headed kind,
not the inquisitive gal) we barbecued—a savory treat—
then grilled our basilisks and our Calydonian boars,
and made a stew of Mr. and Mrs. Manticore;
and although the waters now have started to subside,
the unicorns, tomorrow, will serve as plat du jour—
a sweet-tempered beast, not likely to survive
in this new world, where violence and blind catastrophe
will decide who disappears and who shall thrive,
where our Lord’s presence is no more than the memory
of a threatening voice echoing out of the past, a sigh
in the wind, a pale spectrum fading in the eastern sky.