To increase her appeal, Aphrodite ate beets.
I consider this as I rub the beets with oil
and wrap them in foil and slide them
into the oven to roast. They pulled out
of the garden soil so easily, round and red
and heavy with sugar. It’s not that I believe
the old stories, but I wonder if they perhaps
believe in me and guide my hands as I slice
the warm beets and drizzle dark coils
of thick balsamic vinegar. My hands
move with desire that is mine
and not mine. My lips turn increasingly
crimson, a crimson that cannot be washed away,
essence of the earth, extravagant with myth.