The young woman who settles beside me on the bench along the running track
wears a shirt labeled Nike over one sweat-stained breast.
She is probably oblivious to the goddess who personified victory.
It is very unlikely that she is also a daughter of the Titan Pallas and the goddess Styx.
But as her essence evaporates into my nostrils, I wonder –
Are those goddess pheromones
that are making me accidentally-on-purpose
move my arm closer until it touches her arm
and causing her to follicle fan me
when she pulls back her long hair
and rearranges it with a circle
of metal leaves that might be laurel?
When she stands, the Sun helmets her blonde head
I want to follow her
as she continues to fly around the field
rewarding the victors with glory and fame,
but my mortal rules won’t allow that.
by Lily Hayashi
from Poets Online