Alice O. Howell
Circe
Circe is a bitch
no use in mincing words
that is what she is -
strangely connected
her body speaks a language all its own
with a sinuous vocabulary
of tip-tilted swelling breasts
and spoon-shaped pelvis
long-stemmed bronze-fleshed thighs
even her feet are eloquent
never both flat on the ground
but one uplifted or bent aside
like a model posturing
vending her wares
if her body has words
it also has music
in that she always smells interesting
reminiscent of some bewitching
illusive memory
dusky, musky, and inviting
further - much further exploration -
but her face
feature for feature
is not really beautiful
it glows
with an incandescent animal appeal:
parted lips
waiting to be covered
sharp pretty teeth
perfect for frenzied moaning nipping
eyes that smolder -
black, hot, inviting pools
for flies to drown in
she has a way
of dropping her lids
and looking meaningfully
yet so innocently
as if for the first time
at her next victim
wicked, I tell you
wicked but clever!
At present she runs an antique store
and men find reasons
to bring unwanted heirlooms
to her - and their wives
wonder whatever became of
dear aunt Lulu's black ormolu clock?
The man enters unaware
at first and stands transfixed
by the collection of enchanted
bric-a-brac
that seems to intrigue him strangely
as if it screamed in shouts
of unearthly silence for rescue
from these dusty corners
a little bell jingles as he closes the door
and Circe approaches
apologizing for her bib-apron
which she slowly unties
and wriggles out of
her breasts doing eye-popping
gyrations under the nylon shift
the man puts down his Dresden
princeling and rushes to help
pull that naughty strap caught in the
scented gleaming forest of her chestnut hair -
she laughs and glances him up and down
checking
and his toes curl
his tongue dries up
and his spine snaps to an involuntary salute
to her intentions
then she oohs and ahs
over his exquisite and precious
antique
and a glaze comes over his own eyes
as she folds her arms casually
under the warm pulsing globes
and talks ironically of the high price
of things nowadays
she turns and reaches up to a shelf
for an example
exposing a liquid back
flowing under the clinging dress
and brings down a small porcelain shepherd
to blow the dust off his
paralyzed face
the man starts to sweat
and bristle and put away all thoughts
of home -
the she turns to a
china music box and
opens it to reveal a powerless pink cupid
with a golden bow -
when wound up by her flicking braceleted wrist
the tinkling parody of his treasured past
ripples out, and the handsome little figure
pulls on the golden bow in vain
his arrows long spent
regretfully elsewhere
she snaps the box shut in mid-melody
and interests the victim
as if by sudden inspiration
in her special treasures
kept only for special people
in a special place
and so they pass
out a back door into a brief
court of green grass and hard sunshine
and he could if he would
see innumerable stone garden ornaments:
grotesque dwarfs with blind lanterns
beautiful young boys with wet
naked buttocks under a fountain
and unhappy petrified animals
that will never run and frisk
again
but, of course, a man would not notice
such things under the circumstances.
In the annex
are the very rare objets d'art
which she will reveal
once she has sealed the door
very slowly, and very privately
she undresses her prey
and herself alternately
matching promise in every way
with expectation
by then, poor fellow
knows that he is lost
and at the final moment
he finds himself
caught in a ghastly blinding red-hot
mechanical, impersonal
tick-tock, tick-tock
of the infinite orgasm of time itself
he shudders in the cruel
pincers divided by a steel desire -
never, never, never to be satisfied
he collapses and swells
alternately shrinking and hardening
into brittle yet decorative glaze
Circe laughs softly to herself
and caresses the new ornament
playfully
then with a toss of her hair
she leaves to change into something fresh
before placing this
charming Dresden princeling
into the shop window
right next to the black ormolu clock
then she puts up a worn printed card
BACK SHORTLY - PLEASE WAIT
locks the merrily jingling door
and glides away
for a bite of lunch.
a.o. howell