a prophecy

Ouranos dreams of flowers. Is that a stronger opening line or title? What follows? A blossoming litany, I suppose. They are never named after themselves. The flowers, I mean. They sprout from his omphalo. No one uses that word: omphalo. Perhaps it is a technical term. I have only encountered it once—in a poem by Pinsky. It was part of an abecedarian, I believe. But it is dark and cold and silent. His children are silicate before their petals form. If they could only survive a little longer, become an itch in the pit of his stomach. He would itch and itch and send his children flying. Imagine that, floral crystals drifting through ouranos. What flowers are native to Greece? Why do I not know these things? Ouranos scours his navel every morning, and noon and evening and often in that gray time between sleeping and waking. He begs his wife for a sickle with which to shear these growths. Gaia is beside herself. Why wouldn't she be? Children are children—even in dreams. Do you see where this is going? Gaia refuses. Send them to me, she pleads. Nothing can survive your cold. As soon as they stir, pluck them from your belly and plant them in my skin. They will be fine children. But Ouranos does not relent. He takes Gaia every evening but despises his offspring. They are infesting me, he says. Give me a sickle. Gaia refuses. Ouranos batters her but she refuses and refuses until one night, when Ouranos dreams of a stone in his belly. He does not know it yet, but the stone is thin, and soon his stomach will wear it down. And what do you think is beneath the surface? Soil. Soil and air and seeds and a hint of sunlight. The mass is so heavy in his stomach now that Ouranos bends over like a crone. Who gave him this stone? It does not matter, for we are dreaming. Ouranos demands a sickle now. He imprisons his children in Gaia. They roar and rage and Gaia cannot comfort them so she, too, is pained. Ouranos, still, is taking her, and spiting his children, and tearing at the residue his dreams leave. At this rate all will be madness. So Gaia produces a sickle. She gathers her children. She plants violence in their hearts. It takes to her youngest. Ouranos is obsessing and sees none of this. It is not until he is bleeding at the feet of Kronos that Ouranos understands his dream. In the name of revenge, he does not tell his son what it means.