Circe on Ææa

I will be the sea– as the Aegean
sparing out before me–

I am the action
& the word at once.

What is it that was seen in me?
Somehow, there is a justice in this:

they say men scream like babies
when the jugular is jagged.

First they are turned to pig
& eaten after–

I have never been so flush of blood.
Take it from one who knows:

the meat–juice pinkens & sluices
if you salt the skin.

Listen for the sweet–crisp, the crackle.
They come to me, wielding in their mouths

sweet, lucent plums:
tongues I will jelly & eat, berry–sweetened.

It’s so easy to entrance them
it is almost sickening.

All you need is a wish & a smile,
a finger willing them closer.

They never see the fire sparking
in the quiet, darkened distance–

lit like the frail, thin
line of a fate not worth knowing.

I whisper only of sweet things, their potential–
of the many sticked candies they will yet grow to become.

***

Lorcán Black is an Irish poet. His poetry is forthcoming or has been published in The Progentior, Drunk Monkeys, New Writing Scotland, Poet Lore, Stirring, Snapdragon, Connecticut River Review, Northern New England Review, Souvenir Lit, The Los Angeles Review & The Stinging Fly, amongst numerous others. He is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and has been longlisted for the Two Sylvias Prize. His first collection, Rituals, was published by April Gloaming Publishing in 2019. You can find him on social media @lorcanblack.