They say you came from the line of Hippolyta,
Fierce warriors of the Taurus mounts;
You are no one but a mother of three
And wife of Chronos the Titan.
On your back the map to the golden fleece,
On you face, the goddess of Helen.
You hung the Cyclops on trees and
Bred Gaia’s son, Typhon, on your palm.
What tragedy, you are my mother.
Instead of air, I have nectar for breath,
Tremendum et fascinans for water.
In your island of sorcery I was reared
And for friends, I have Odysseus’
Companions-turned-pigs. Porcis you once
Was called. The Hag, the swine-killer,
Circe, I call you now in my dreams.
And with strings spun by Medusa,
You manipulate hearts, organs and lives
While sitting on your tripod
Crushing with your heels, the serpent Typhon.


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