Tea with Hera During Venus Retrograde
I.
I sought her out—she knows what it’s like to have
jealousy suffocate your thoughts—to drown in wanting.
I wondered if there were ever times she forgot who she was;
if just knowing Zeus chased others—
made her find faults and want to carve them into her skin
so that each scar bellowed: Is this why I’m not enough?
II.
Her home is nacre—pristine, with sapphire blue velvet couches,
silver end tables; she wants people to think she’s cold—that nothing
touches her. Even she could learn serenity. But her hearth
is always lit, and bouquets of peacock feathers are a reminder:
someone is always watching.
I have brought offerings:
lilies and poppies. I need her now—I’ve spent nights driving
myself mad, calling potential ghosts, longing to get lost
in darkness—to confirm suspicions I cannot honestly own.
III.
She is imposing in a deep v black jumpsuit, her raven hair—
sleek and tinged with blue. Her lips are a slick brick red,
so I can’t help but stare at her every word.
She sits across from me, lights her cigarette and gestures
for me to pour the tea. We sip and I confess how envy
has taken root in me these last few months. How I cannot sigh
away these other women—who they were, what they may become.
They have returned to shake me to my core, to cloud
whatever I want so that I’m always dizzy with paranoia—
so I forget who I really am and become a simple girl
sick with yearning and never whole.
IV.
It would be sweet to say she gently cupped my cheek,
instead of gripping my chin, her nails digging in
leaving half moons along my neck and jaw.
You are no shade; you will be the wistfulness that slips
into conversations at dusk, the nostalgia beneath the skin,
the nightmare that sleeps next to them.
She smirks at me as she pours us another cup of tea.
Marisa is a poet, bruja, spirit companion, and contributing writer for Pussy Magic. Growing up in the Southwest influenced her magickal practices, and she considers herself a kitchen witch. In her free time, she enjoys reading about the Fae Folk, scandals in Old Hollywood, and the spirits of the sea. She is obsessed with kitschy motels in the desert, mermaids, vampires, and pinups. In her twenties she attended UEA in England, and misses being able to sit in pubs, people watch, and write. You can find her on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter @thesweetmaris.