She boils the thighbones of her cattle
until they give like gelatin
when she prods them with
a rough-grained wooden spoon.
Sprinkles silver
powder in the fuming cauldron.  Stirs.
Ulysses, crouched behind a barrel,
spies on the witch as she brews
in her overheated
dark kitchen.
The windows are draped with
black velvet:
there is scarcely enough
light to see by.  Circe’s eyes gleam red.
She is sweating like a green hill
the dew has drenched.
Her skirt so short,
he can see her rump
when she makes abrupt moves.
Muscled arms bare, she plunges
the long spoon
into the eye of the hurricane
she’s cooked up.  She spreads
the stuff, like butter, on a glass plate.
By now,
both the woman and the man
feel so hot,
they feel just about ready to hallucinate.