Do you love me?
I want to be loved for myself,
not just because I’m a goddess,
fairest of all creation.
Why do you love me?
I need to know what drew you here.
I bet it was my golden hair, the way
it shimmer-shines a thousand suns. Or maybe
my flawless face, more perfect than the arch
of Athena’s eyebrow raised in pensive contemplation.
What makes you want me?
Your passion springs forth at the sight
of my firm, upturned breasts. Yes. It does.
But then I notice you can’t keep your fingers
from the golden girdle that encircles my fecund
waist with a god’s jealous magic.
You want me because I’m beautiful, right?
I know you think I’m beautiful. I am the goddess of love, after all.
I know you want me. You leave offerings on my temple steps
of incense, pomegranates, doves. You risk the wrath of Hephaestos
to lie in my bed. I’m sure you’re not doing this
to gain bragging rights, to boast of bagging
the greatest beauty of all time.
You do think I’m beautiful, don’t you?