Hippomenes

This one's about Hippomenes, a young man who run a race with Atalanta by tossing three golden apples from Aphrodite in her path.  As the winner, he won the right to marry her; the losers were beheaded.

           Hippomenes

O Aphrodite, you call yourself
Love’s goddess, but you gave me
Nothing but a forced affection.
Atalanta stopped in her course
For your golden apples, rich
And glittering, and not for me.
And on our wedding night,
She gave herself to her agreement
And not to a beloved husband
So I never got to know the soul
Behind the painted smile
Or the pulse behind
The perfect breast.

I know I am partially to blame,
Praying to you as if she were
A prize to win rather than
A person to be prized.
But you, a goddess,
Should have known better.
That’s why I never gave you
My promised thanks.

So now you punish me
For ingratitude and turn me
Into a lonely lion who,
The old wives say,
Can roar and rule, but
Can never truly mate.
And I ask you –
What difference
will it make?