Aphrodite, my dear sister, the foam-born,
churned in a froth of father’s seed
and waves, rocked in the blue
womb of the sea which unrolled
you and retreated, leaving
its new pink daughter
on the Cyprian sand like driftwood.
And I, sprung battle ready
from the white cave of father’s
mind, my shoulders bowed
by armor, my hands stung
by lightning bolts, and my eyes

tinted like the muted sky,
grey and impassive, seized
only by the ecstasy of destruction.
But not you sweet sister, you loaf
in your magic girdle and carelessly
use the low, humming frequency
of sex to enchant mortals and Olympians
who submit to your sloe eyes
and wet lips. They want to lap
at the sea—so full of water yet
quenches no thirst—and still
they drink with busy, fervent

tongues, desperate for your pant
of approval. How could we,
who were birthed without mothers,
not understand each other? I’ve tried
to know what you feel.
I was the first to bridle horses
so men could ride, watching
their bodies rise and fall
in rhythm with another,
their bare thighs chaffed,
but hearts pounding
to the cadence of hoof beats.

My own legs are smooth,
my pulse, ever-steady.
What else, my sister, can I do?
And your poor, monstrous husband,
born in retaliation for my own
solitary conception, if anyone
could understand me it would be
him, whose crooked body clings
to your loose arms, cradled
in your pale, unsatisfied limbs.
His disfigured love could not win
your fidelity. How could it? You have

our father’s capricious lust,
like a bee pollinating, you never notice
how the petals tremble when you leave
to go stroke another heavy pistil.
Where is father's wild darkness in me?
No wonder fickle young Paris
bestowed the prized red-cheeked
apple on you. Our step-mother too
matronly to receive it, and I—I am
a warrior, broad in shoulder
and jaw, with no winding curve

of breast-waist-hip for men to wander
over and distract their sword thrusts.
No, I was made to serve man, and not
excite him, never raising their loins
to a fevered boil, just a raised cup in honor
of my ferocity. They would hoist
a thousand sails for a glance
and pay their underworld toll
with a placid smile, sated in their fatal
exertions for beauty. Why must
you have everything? How did you learn
to be such a lush, fertile woman
while I only learned war cries, barricaded
behind my hymen, always loved

at a distance, but you—you are embraced,
you are tangible to these sensory mortals.
Oh, my darling sister, love goddess, protector
of reproduction, I’m shining my armor
for you, have your son sharpen
his arrows and love-prick as many
mortal targets as possible. Troy was not
the end. Create the limb-locked frenzy
while you still can. I have sent
the owl snapping his beak
to hunt the dove’s soft throat.

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Traci is a native Minnesotan who now lives and writes in New York City. She will start her MFA in Poetry at Sarah Lawrence College this fall. Her work has recently appeared in a-pos-tro-phe, and she has work forthcoming in Tattoo Highway.
E-mail: traci724 at juno dot com
 

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