|Oct/Nov 2015 Poetry Special Feature|
Image courtesy of NASA and the University of Arizona
For Erin Elizabeth Smith
Driving down south, during a week of storms
no doubt she summoned, I discovered Circe
has a little holler farm outside Knoxville,
with a coop, sheep, goats, and a protective donkey.
Her hair Waterhouse painted is shorter now,
sundresses and half-cut cute boots replaced
thin gowns for Mediterranean breezes.
She smokes remembering jazz age soirées
while humming Depeche Mode's classic "Nothing."
My domestic goddess host made me moonshine
martinis and lamb she remembered fondly.
She noticed I found it quite honest but weird.
Without sugarcoating anything she shared,
"David, we do not eat the ones we name."