Mask of Aphrodite (Repost)

 

 

 

Wolves, © Andrew Wyeth

 

 

 

Mask Of Aphrodite

 

"There is no cure for love other than marriage." 

~Irish proverb 

 

 

Love's an old wolf who howls when she pleases,

her black lips drawn back in mock of a grin.

She's made me her meat for chancers and losers,

to open the locks and let anyone in.

 

Her yellow teeth are blunted with winters

but her fevers burn bright as melted brass.

Her eyes are flat-white as Attic marble

rolling behind Aphrodite's mask.

Her promises drift like leaves in October.

Her vows of fidelity make the stones laugh.

There's never been one she ever was true to,

only the lucky who died too fast.

Since I was that child who was used as a woman

since I was that woman who thinks like a child

I've run with her pack. The crows find my dinner,

set the price we pay for being born wild.

I've never whored for playthings or money

but three times three it saved my life.

I've never lied for the sake of loving,

only to play at being a wife.

I never was called to be a drunkard,

but ever I've been every drunkard's best friend;

and I drop the mask when I see it coming,

 

the black-lipped snarling

bitter end.

September 2023

Lightly edited for repostng

July 2026 

 

 

 

Head of Aphrodite, via Brittanica

 

 

 

Goat's Delight

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goat's Delight

 

 

 

The yellowed moon hangs low,

a pendant swung from night's cold neck,

blind platinum stare bent

blinkless on the baleful earth 

where simpering dawn is frozen in

pink slippers on the hill.

 

Last night the bloodglow of the sun

gave false fire to the anorexic trees,

scarlet-purpled sheets of light 

burning hope to killed music,

all that once was dancing

turned ash on a shifting wind.

 

Only the goat-woman is left,

the greyed-out girl

covered in indigo roadmaps traced

by her traveling heart, denim-fade eyes

croned to clouds, 

still raking coals ablaze

 

with the crooked stick of memory

wild in her wavering hand, feral

as a goat indiscriminately devouring 

all the broken cities of the years, 

following a random hunger

up to this winter hill 

 

where she sits remembering 

how to be free;

a prisoner on the edge

of her skinwalking escape.

 

 January 2026

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

linked to 

d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images : Moonrise, 1884  ©Stanislaw Malinowski   Fair Use

Soulmates ©Kseizycolica    Fair Use