Aphrodite as a Fat Woman

By Elizabeth Higgins

I.

Seventh grade humanities class. Ancient Greece.
Each table group is a city-state. Each teacher is a god.

I sit in the southeast corner of Corinth.
Our teacher stands in front of the class and tells us she is Aphrodite.

There’s snickering because the idea is absurd,
the comedic formula familiar: fat woman

thinks she’s a goddess.
We search her eyes for irony, for apology,

but there isn’t any. My laminate desk
reflects fluorescence.

I stare down at it, glare shifting with my pulse
as I try to tuck my second chin into my chest,

to fold in on myself, to stop my face from burning
which always makes it worse

and after twenty years of letting this memory
gather enough dust to dim a light bulb

I saw a drawing of Aphrodite
that did not look like Aphrodite to me

and I didn’t know why
and the dust plumed when it hit me.

II.

I’ve never been much for mythology, but what if I told you that
Aphrodite is abundant. Aphrodite ripples like the ocean she came from.

Envelops. Lifts. Shapeshifts. Pounds the shore until its rocks are exposed
and gleaming.

That sometimes her energy is forced into the sea floor
and her people have to suffer facsimiles.

That even in dormancy, she can reach into the future and arouse
my attention with a warm balm of rose and myrrh.

,