Circe

The Charm
The fire bites, the fire bites. Bites
to the little death. Bites
till she comes to nothing. Bites
on her own sweet tongue.
She goes on. Biting.

The Anticipation
They tell me a woman waits, motionless till
she’s wooed. I wait
spiderlike, effortless as they weave
even my web for me, tying the cords in
knots with their courting hands. Such power
over them. And the spell their own. Who
could release them? Who would untie the
cord
with a cloven hoof?

The Bite
What I wear in the morning pleases
me: green shirt, skirt of wine. I am wrapped
in myself as the smell of night wraps round
my sleep when I sleep outside.
By the time
I get to the corner
bar, corner store, corner construction
site, I become divine. I turn
men into swine. Leave
them behind me whistling, grunting, wild.