Artemis will not get you laid
no matter how much scotch on the rocks
you leave half full on her altar.
The risk reward ratio
for walking in on her in the tub
is a limb torn per breast, and entrails
splayed for a peep between navel and thigh.
Her mood is like the moon.
Try Aphrodite for a while—
she’ll let you look
she’ll kill your competition
for a price.
Bernadette McComish earned an M.F.A. from Sarah Lawrence, and an M.A. in Teaching English as a Second Language from Hunter. She writes poems that explore parallel realms where fortunetellers give base advice from behind cash registers, and addicts ride subways underwater reciting Shakespeare. Her poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, Sunday Salon, Hakol, Hospital Drive, Slipstream, Storyscape, and she was a finalist for the New Millennium Writers 41st poetry prize. Her collection The Book of Johns, is forthcoming. She teaches High School in Los Angeles, and performs with the Poetry Brothel curing one John at a time with words and glitter.