Robert E. Stutts
Pasiphaë, Holding the Horns
of the froth-white Bull
on the shore, who dipped
his head as if bowing.
She had surged forward
with the tide swirling
around his heavy hooves,
slowly drawing away
thick, wet sand beneath.
A moment’s hesitation,
a cold shudder swimming
through her body,
but when the sea rose
once more to lick at her toes,
silver silk came slipping
from her maidens’ fingers.
The Bull nibbled seed-corn
from her palm, rough
fat tongue dripping
saliva between her fingers.
Along the broad back, deep white
valleys show the tracings
of muscle and sinew,
her fingers cresting like
seafarers across its flanks.
Dark eyes, the heavy
snorting of ocean mist,
cool and fiery against
the backs of her thighs.
She grasped the rounded
gold horns, awaiting
high tide and the shock
of sea foam
