By Elle Barrett
(Based on the myth of Daphne and Apollo as retold in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.)
Daphne once asked her father to grant her what Jupiter had given Diana.
Wishing more than anything to remain unwed.
The setter of traps, but never to be bound.
As she asked for power over her life,
Her father spoke only of what was owed to him,
as if she were a stepping stone
to a grandson, an accessory
for a son-in-law.
When he at last complied,
he couldn’t see her through his pity.
Apollo couldn’t see her through his lust.
From his very first glance, he laid his claim.
As he began his chase,
Daphne began her escape.
Her golden tresses swaying in the wind,
Her hair as wild as a doe,
as a dove,
as her spirit.
The irony of hunting a huntress
lost on the wind.
Apollo was a dog on a trail,
surprised to find she wanted no part in his pursuit.
But he means her no harm.
For he’s no lion,
or eagle.
He claims that if she only knew him,
she would concede,
as if she wouldn’t know the presence
of a god on her heels.
He spoke of nothing but praise for her fingers,
her hands,
her wrists,
her arms,
her shoulders,
of each joint and juncture, he wished to touch.
He spoke nothing of which he cannot lay his hands on.
Her breath became labored,
Her legs grew weak
as he boasted of his realms,
of his accolades,
in between moaning
that a broken heart has no cure.
The inventor of medicine, and yet,
only she can save him from his grief.
But who then heals what the healer inflicts?
In desperation, Daphne called out to her father,
Begging for him to intervene.
When she at last lost hope, her wish was granted.
Surely, a blessing that came without a moment to spare?
But in horror, she watched
as her skin became gnarled,
her movement stilted,
It wasn’t enough,
is never enough
to stop a predator in its tracks.
Her prayer was granted by none other than a god,
as a goddess would know this new form would save her but little.
Her father once spoke of beauty as a fault,
as a danger to its wielder,
as if babes in their swaddling cloths were safe from the reaches of wickedness,
the depravity of man.
As she became rooted to the spot,
The god of healing drank in her helplessness,
Tracing the swirls now buried in her skin.
Skin that even then repelled his touch.
Her bark breaking off with each stroke of his hand.
Taking her shudders for ones of pleasure,
he listed the ways he would use her still.
Her hair would decorate his own,
her branches would designate champions.
Her torso turned into a bow,
her trunk a lyre.
Fitting that she would be used
to both wage war and calm the battle-weary.
She prayed her screams would be audible
in each note the god of music pulled from her.
Even her wooden state,
made no difference to him.
To the lust-filled god of prophecy,
she was a battle won.
And he would take her apart regardless
piece
by
piece.
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