by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Anonymous, The Greek Anthology, vi, 24
Astarte, strange Syrian
goddess of who-knows-what,
poor Heliodorus turns
to you -- his last resort --
and places on your temple porch
the net he wore out only
by casting and drawing in
these untold days, the net
that not a single fish
was captured in! Seaweed
was all he hauled and spread,
to the amusement of fellow
fishermen, upon the beach
where his sad bark anchored.
Astarte, prove yourself:
if Greece's gods do nothing,
then, star of Phoenicia,
take up this net and ply
with your own gold fingers
its knots and weaves, until
it learns to summon fish
as the asphodel draws bees.
Lady of Lions, hear this prayer!
