If I were pure Aphrodite
sowing seeds in mountains,
on rivers, alongside Athena’s bath.
If only I could move underneath
Hephaestus rather than within
him. But when he hammers, I hammer,
When he cries, it rains. Maybe we
don’t belong together, not because
there are big wide spaces but
because I'm meant to comb the earth
with dew-filled seeds. I just want to wait
and watch this rose of sharon grow,
hold it in my hand and count the
petals, then count again as though
the number 5 can change and move.
I want it to be mine, no-- I want to want
it to be mine, for when love carves
into horse shoes, I only stay a season.
We plant our seeds, we watch, we leave,
She carries on. I mourn.