I invite Circe to a dinner party

Victoria Punch

She comes in sharp

as a kitchen knife,

saying today it’s time to begin

again, bare hair wild, breath

heavy. Wearing dyed linen, inches deep

in mud. Feet bare, nails

painted in blood

red, chef’s kiss, she brings

the otherworld in after her

a thin place my body aches

to pass through. She

is a bird’s tongue

speech as black as a cave’s back,

words like a rock fall. She wants pancetta,

leans over the breakfast bar, advises

on herbs, nods for more seasoning.

Eyelids low as the spoon curves up

to her tasting, chin on palm,

breathing gold. When I drain

the tagliatelle she heads straight for the olive oil

anoints the flat strips prostrate under her spoon,

lavishes them with love, and thyme,

pressing it green between her hands to release

the smell before the fall. Tells me

cooking is one transformation she has never understood

because, mostly, things become more like

what they already are.

VICTORIA PUNCH is a voice coach and researcher interested in voice, silence, and translation. She has work published in Poetry, Poet Lore, Mslexia, Magma, Under the Radar, Journal of Italian Translation, and Gods and Monsters (Pan Macmillan 2023). Found on Instagram @victoriapunch_