God of affluence and treasures, swirling in my cloud
of muscled tanned glittering venom, receiver of sacrifices
most desired, I, why would I choose her?
So many offered, unresisting, willing to accept
the stone, the ring, the walk to the altar,
futures sparkling like the distant stars. I do not choose these.
I crave resistance, screams before dawn, the terror of trust betrayed, the struggle against fate, not their predictable submissions, like pretty young mares with the stallion, like the maenads with their boozy god. I told her, “Why would I choose you?”
The modest Penelope cloaked in thick wool, parrying off the suitors. Not Helen, who gave herself away, not Aprhrodite, goddess of the willing partner. I choose to grasp, tear and take. I choose to sculpt an amphorae of doubt and pain.
All eyes turned to me but hers. She refused me
quietly, politely, too firmly. Doll goddess, startled fawn, knotted rose bud,
cornered, I chose her.
And when I finished,
I reminded her no one would believe
she did not choose me.
©2014 Diane Stepro
All Rights Reserved
Diane Holmes Stepro holds an MFA in writing poetry from Indiana University, Bloomington. She has published poems in journals including The Cinncinnati Review and The Birmingham Review.