By Kit Ingram
Ganymede swishes into the atrium in a gold lamé suit, his hair lifted into a shining pompadour. Accompanying mirror-boys reflect the late sun into a spotlight that follows him towards me. His shirt is unbuttoned to a pendant of a cabbage or the head of Zeus. I kiss his hand, and we sit at a table for two with velvet menus. I joke about ambrosia, but he flips to champagne and laughs in waves of gilded bubbles. We order a mid-range vintage, demi-sec.
AC: Thanks for joining me. I know Olympus is missing you.
G: Pleasure. I needed a break from Daddy. You know how he gets when he’s day drunk.
His voice is clear and light, pre-pubescent.
AC: We’ve not met, actually—Zeus and me. Who are you wearing, by the way?
He dabs his nose with a candy-pink scarf.
G: Tom Ford, except the (he swings out his leg to a glittering stiletto) which are a little something I stoned myself.
AC: Remarkable. If it’s alright, I’d like to start at the incredible fate of you being—how shall I put it?—
G: Taken?
AC: Yes, from one mountain to another. Was the weather an adjustment?
G: I wasn’t expecting all the snow days—if that’s what you’re asking?
AC: You were barely a teen when it happened. Do you miss anything about Phrygia? Your family? The sheep? I hear the summers are stunning.
G: I miss my pups. There are horses in Olympus, but they don’t get me in the same way. Thankfully, we don’t have to smell them because the palaces are spilling with flowers.
AC: Your official role is cupbearer. Does Zeus tip well?
He rests his chin on his hands.
G: There are perks. Some say I haven’t aged a day.
AC: You have that dewy freshness thing going on, I agree.
G: We call that immortality, hunny. But it comes with a price.
AC: Oh?
G: Side-eye, for one. Hera hates the way Zeus looks at me, especially after a dip in the bath. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m—
AC: Competition?
G: Right? I mean, they’re married, and I’m more like a zephyr, blowing here and there.
AC: Where will you go next?
G: Annie Leibovitz is taking my portrait on one of the islands.
AC: She’s a legend. You must be thrilled?
G: I don’t mind sitting for a shoot. It’s the sculptors that are difficult. I can pose with a hoop like anyone’s business, but I need breaks, or I get this spasm in my bicep that can last for days. Why not take a photo and work from there?
AC: Speaking of which. I know your Insta has exploded since that series of spa selfies. Can we expect more?
G: I’m planning to release an NFT of me catching pearls in my mouth. I’ve been practicing.
AC: Care to demonstrate?
G: Not in front of (he looks around). Just remember, it’s all about the angle of the—
He glances to a mirror-boy who’s tapping his wrist.
AC: One last question, I know you’re busy. What’s something people would be surprised to learn about you?
G: I knit and write poetry.
AC: Like lyrics?
G: Like free verse but sounding good.
AC: I’m listening.
G: Do you mind not looking at me when I read?
AC: Sorry.
G: Ok, here goes:
I wake with /fists of eagle feathers / my body rigid / glistening / and Zeus rolls over and says my name / He needs me even in his dreams / but when I need him / he’s always sleeping
and then after that maybe some kind of—
His voice frays, and he leaves me at the table. The clacks of his heels echo through my unasked questions. I order some olives, and as I’m finishing, the manager clicks a button, and the dome darkens to a sky of LED stars.
Kit Ingram (he/him) is a queer Canadian poet and novelist based in London. His work has appeared in Magma and Ambit and in several global anthologies including Poems from Pandemia (ed. Patrick Cotter). Alice and Antius, his debut book of poetry, was published by Penrose Press in January 2022. Publishers Weekly described the work as a ‘moving, gorgeous novel in verse’ and ‘a poignant piece of art.’ More at: https://kitingram.com / Twitter: @kitingramwrites / Instagram: @kitingramwrites