The Desire Catalogue, and: Parable of Daphne, and: Parable of Io

The Desire Catalogue, and: Parable of Daphne, and: Parable of Io Lillian Emerick Valentine (bio) The Desire Catalogue I've been wanting to write a poem with the wordchiaroscuro. I've been wanting to pick up Homer and face him in the wine-dark afternoon, to strip the endless shipsinto splinters. My shelves are filled with my wanting—lately I've been wanting to write a poem that strikesinto the wound, instead of circling it like vultures. Why is it after everything, I still want to seemyself as Achilles? True I was never afraid of violence, only your embrace becoming footprintsin the sand. Now when I remember us it's with the bolts tightened, the horses drawn. I want, for once, a poemwhere I lead us golden through the war. In that one you'll call me late at night, lamplit, to hear me say it: chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro. End Page 111 Parable of Daphne Apollo saw her, loved her, wanted her. —Ovid, Metamorphoses It begins already too late:metamorphosisin its desperation swepther into silence, leavesunfurling hard and glossyover naked twigs. Daphnewas hurried into heartwoodlike a girl stuffedinto a wedding dress—see how her fingersare indistinguishablefrom the canopy,her eyes that glimmered,dark burls in the wood. What was it she was wearing—her hair loose in a girlishribbon, the gossamer whiteof her dress parting the riveraround a stone, until she was leftwith nothing but the forestfloor, where the greasy tracksof centipedes braid the dirt. Apollo loved her, saw her,wanted her—but if only she had neverbeen desired—never laughed like sunshineon water, never touchedher shining fingers to her mouth— End Page 112 after, when he pressed his perfectgod-lips to her bark and feltit recoil, she was alreadyan idol. At least, sweet laurelhe said to her then—if you won'tbe my bride, you shall be my tree. End Page 113 Parable of Io you charming girl he said,smooth voice coating his baredteeth, unctuous as oil pooledin a rainy parking lot. her answerwas the patter of heelsas she ran from him,dropping everything, losingher keys. he called out no,do not run! and pulled nightover her like a filthy rag. there was the rape and the furyof his wife that followed. his fingersthick with godliness, he madeher into what he wanted: beautiful,milk-cream skin (lovely stillalthough a cow) . . . and what thenbut to gift her to his wife?mired with muzzle, she madean exquisite heifer. when she was remade humanit was for a body that wasn't hers—pregnant, she was a vessel with breastsheavy from milk. and she, still afraidto speak, slunk into divinity with fliesbuzzing against her. after everything,it was a son. that was howshe never lost the feeling of men'shands kneading her like meat,how the detestable smell of milkbecame inseparable from her altar. End Page 114 Lillian Emerick Valentine lillian emerick valentine is a poet and organic farmer from Oregon. She currently lives in Missoula, Montana where she is an MFA candidate and instructor. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Ecotone, The Fjords Review, Salamander, and other literary journals. Her favorite bird is a kingfisher. Copyright © 2024 University of North Dakota