Circe

On the edge of the world
where the sea forgets its promises
and the wind speaks in older tongues,
there lives a woman
who does not ask to be understood.

They called her witch
because the word woman
was never sharp enough
to explain power.

In her halls
lions lie like house cats in the sun,
wolves sleep with their heads on her feet,
and the men who came with swords
now drink from shallow bowls
and finally learn
what hunger really is.

She does not curse.
She reveals.

She turns men into beasts
only when they arrive as beasts,
all teeth and wanting,
all noise and no listening.

Her magic is not in the potion,
not in the smoke,
not in the quiet words spoken
into the mouth of the cup.

Her magic
is that she survives.

Alone.
Unchosen.
Unrescued.
Unapologetic.

The sea brings her sailors,
heroes, liars, and lonely boys
wearing crowns like costumes.
She feeds them,
and some she frees,
and some she keeps,
and some she changes
so the world can see them clearly.

On her island
nothing pretends for long.

And at night
when the fire burns low
and the moon lays a silver path
across the black water,

Circe walks the shoreline
not as a villain,
not as a warning,
not as a footnote in a hero’s story—

but as a woman
who was left alone
and became
a legend instead.