I woke up this morning and it was snowing–your Love Goddess is in Colorado, not in the heavens (although it is truly heavenly here). And I thought this was a perfect time to share a poem by Carbondale, Colorado poet Karen Jane Glenn. Karen, who has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has read her work on NPR’s “All Things Considered,” knows a thing or two about mythology (which I like). And about gods and goddesses (ditto). This poem, “Call Me Circe,” was published in Cream City Review.
It may be April Fool’s Day, but this here goddess is no fool.
CALL ME CIRCE
They say I like to turn men
into swine. It’s not the truth.
I just can’t help it.
I bite my lip. I swing my hip.
There are a thousand tricks,
each one of them too easy.
It’s no work for a woman.
A prepubescent girl could do it.
The proof? That Daphne, a disaster really
with her bared baby breasts.
But spying her, sun-dazed Apollo
became a goat in rut. To get away,
she had to turn into a tree—
a laurel, I believe.
A laurel! A pretty tree,
but pointless. That wouldn’t be my way.
No, picture this—that green tree
swaying back in Eden, a snake
curled in the branches. That’s more me.
My treacherous apples hang
not quite out of reach, promising
everything,
everything
like some deceitful god.
