I was never quite like
the other girls, with my books
and the cigarettes I smoked
out behind the courtyard,
while they all kneaded bread,
let the child of their long-absent war heroes
suckle on their small, pale tits.
He understood that.
He thought it was hot
when I asked him to fuck me
on the golden fleece.
We rode bareback
throughout the country side,
and I knew what it was
to have a family,
to have somewhere I belonged
where no one would merely
pin me under their
phallicocentrism.

So it was when he scorned me,
leaving me behind for that
great white bitch of an heiress,
that I knew what I was,
the only one awake
in this joke of a mythology.
Even Circe said she would wait,
but I knew, then,
that she could only turn men into pigs.
She had no spell of her own.

Jason, my love,
how beautiful was your virgin bride in her wedding gown,
those flames lapping at her feet?
And the two severed heads of our children in my fists?
I laugh and fly out toward the East.

Do you remember
how good it felt
to be loved
by a witch?