No one remembers how their arguments started.
Zeus said, Hera said, that sort of thing.
It always ended with him aiming thunderbolt arrows
at her. He was a great hunter, but he always missed.
Deliberately. They swore to condemn each other
to the hissing pits of Tartarus, bubbling lava
with not a droplet of water in sight.

Then the Romans came and conquered everything.
Centuries wore down mortals into disbelieving.
Gods and goddesses who roamed the Pantheon were
neutered. But Zeus wasn’t ready to retire. Oh, no!
He still taunted her with a longer list of her friends
he’d managed to seduce after their first year
of marriage. She pummeled him with pomegranates.

He stood his ground and stared into her eyes.
This time he didn’t miss. She stumbled dead
into his arms. They melted in the fire of his tears.
We jaspilites are remainders of their veins.
If you ever find us off the Keweenaw Peninsula,
treasure our remains. One day you too will
bleed thunderbolts and pomegranates.