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.