Shapeshifter

Like a cat,
She grows talons
Sharp enough to tear
Human flesh.
Her body elongates,
Sleek black fur,
The gold of her eyes
Gleams in the darkness
As she bounds away
Rider and Ridden.

Medea, Another Version

Medea,
Priestess of Athena,
Violated in Her temple precincts
In the name of Poseidon
By invaders whose God of the Sea
Usurped Aphrodite's realm.

Medea,
Driven mad
By visions of
Writhing snakes
Forcing apart her lips.

Medea,
Granted revenge by the Goddess.
A crown of sacred serpents
The gift of turning to stone
Any man who comes too near.

Medea,
Honored by Athena
Who wears her frightening visage
Upon Her breastplate.

Medea,
Her gaping mouth
Every rape victim's
Unheard
Scream.

Desire: The Acrostic Poem

Demented
Emissary
Setting
Irresistible
Reactions
E-Motion



1/11/04

Raw

Dressed in a navy blue suit,
she sits at the counter,
eating ikura sushi.
In her mouth,
the primal dance
of life and death.
Orange fish eggs pop
on her tongue
like so many orgasms.

Hearthless

We have no hearths, only television sets
and gourmet kitchens that no one cooks in.
Our fireplaces are but for show;
Our central heating has no center.
The sacred mystery of fire, unseen,
how soon forgotten,
As we sit in houses warmed by atoms split
and watch electrons dance.

A Mother's Fears

Demeter,
Did you try to rein in Persephone,
prevent her from growing up,
keep her by your side for too long?
Was she abducted or did she run away?
Why were you so afraid?
Was Hades a motorcycle-riding,
black-leather-jacket-wearing,
impudent young god?
Did he sweet-talk your daughter,
sweep her off her feet?
Did he promise to take her to the stars,
but instead delivered Hell on earth?
And those pomegranate seeds,
Were they fruit or blood or children?
She would have stayed for her children's sake.

Sappho Preparing to Worship

She sits at her vanity table,
Dressing her unruly black tresses
with olive oil and ivory combs.
Her body petite, almost frail,
Her belly soft with birth giving and age.
She darkens her lids with kohl,
Making her black eyes smolder.
Dabbing imported scent on
earlobes, wrists, the hollow of her throat,
the space between her breasts,
She thinks not of the Goddess
but of her lover's mouth.
Smoothing her fine white chiton,
she pulls her dark cloak on and
goes out into the night,
A priestess of Aphrodite's errand.

Published in SageWoman, No. 58, Summer 2002