CIRCE
Diann Blakely

There's adventure in home-life,
though none of them saw it. They were hungry
for oceans, the stretched sky, a taut sail.
Their one trick was map-work, they prayed
to pale gods, and tracked stars.

Yet such spaces oppressed them, they missed
clean clothes, and forks. At home
they'd had beds changed, the sheets tightened,
uncreased. They complained of long hours,
saw the sea become sluttish, slack-edged.

So they've come here to me, wanting
mindlessness, limits. They will look
to no stars, sleep at times I enforce.
Drink's strictly forbidden--they lick salt
from my hand.

I saw usual cravings, and blessed them wtih snouts.