Alcithoe hunched in the corner of her dark bedroom
cradling herself with filmy wings,
a vespertine creature conversing with owls when she takes flight.
The light from the wall-mounted screen glowers. Much-hymned Bacchus’
tentacles of ivy and vine reaching out, incessant. Ever-changing visions of feasts:
an abundance of food on decorative plates;
fasts carts drawn by lynxes;
perfumed, fawn-skin wearing nymphs,
dancing, twirling, shrieking
that can be bought by offering oneself up to the Lightning-Born.
Being industrious, it has changed meaning.
To be a contributing member she must join the frenzy,
but she won’t. She will not betray her sisters.
She will wait.
(she waits for dusk)
Swooping, soaring, when revellers are busy with their dinner,
she echolocates her kind.
(Is this really punishment?)