Aphrodite was reborn again this morning on a New England shore, surfboarding up the sand on a king-size clamshell. Kelp trailed abalone like a parade float. Homecoming queen on a wave. The beach crowd moaned, What a bold woman.
I’m not a woman, Aphrodite said, goddess reborn into an era of one-day delivery and drones. She claimed megaphone from a lifeguard with Botticelli surfer-curls, mounting his chair. My body is an unstuck pearl, she spoke. You called me, so I returned.
The crowd looked at each other, pointing, Did you call? like standing at a door while a delivery driver offered pizza, sure no one phoned.
What had love to do with worship? The crowd bowed low before her, Sunday-trained for red seas parting, willing to sacrifice their children. What a waste to shame them into the sand, since Aphrodite adored faces.
Take this child, fearsome angel! A sand dune of a man speaking, sunscreen streaked on his shoulders. He pushed a teenager, as gentle as a pool floatie. The kid stumbled, ears blocked by oversized headphones. Hey Dad, what? The child gripped a vintage Walkman, lifting left earpiece. Now, beheld Aphrodite aloft chair, hermit crab gripping holy ankle. A goddess. Dad! the kid yelped.
The father genuflected, then scurried back to his double-digit family unit, calling, We don’t know what to do with that one. Won’t answer to its god-given name. By far the least obedient. A few among the beach nodded. Gratitude for saving the rest of them.
Aphrodite hopped down, landing like an earthquake. She considered the teen, grit pasted to red cheek. Sandy hair in a shaggy undercut. What’s your name? she asked. Friday, said the human.
No, it’s not! Her father called. The mother clutched a cross at her throat, pinch-mouthed. This must be the angel sent to save her child from damnation. The crowd shoved their heads into sandcastle moats, deep in supplication.
Friday was gross, like all people. Humans have pores like anemones, clogged with dirt, pus, gunk, and lint in their belly buttons, scabbed-up shins rolled with bits of fuzz, and microbes under their toenails. Furry tongues. Overgrown eyebrows. Wax-ball ears. Sweat-slick scalps. Fetid genitals. Mouthy buttholes. All this Aphrodite considered about humans.
The goddess, on the other hand, skin lilac-smoothed by saltwater, navel-less by clam birth, boasted an ever-hydrated scalp, honey-pot lips, cinnamon-scented genitals, and as if utilizing every drugstore enema in the known universe, heiress to the cleanest butthole in all of divinity and beyond. How perfect Aphrodite was on the day of her second birth.
The goddess poked Friday, as if a prize might come out. Like deep sea clams opening their mouths to offer pearls, compressed by the pressure of so much water. Friday slapped at every divine parry. You don’t have consent to touch me, ma’am! No, no, no. The humans gasped at the audacity. Aphrodite smiled a little. The goddess of love loves no one more than a person who honors their body as monument. She gestured to the tape player, still rolling in the teenager’s grip.
It’s a mixtape, Friday said, glancing around. Do you want to listen?
Aphrodite stooped down a little. They tucked their heads together, sharing earphones while the people watched them. Aphrodite felt Friday’s heartbeat in one ear, and in the other, a melancholy love song. The goddess hummed, foot dancing like citizens used to dance for her in worship. She found the lyricist a bit whiny, but the goddess of love was happy.
Friday shrugged, Yeah, that’s The Cure.
Aphrodite saw the kid’s entire life stretch before them, every lover and friend tucking their feet into their sofa, every love letter sent, how this world would sacrifice them, but Friday would kick higher, and break the surface. Friday’s heartbeat was Aphrodite’s call, pumping like the messy belches of pufferfish.
When the song ended, Aphrodite stood. She pressed the siren on the megaphone. Some people covered their ears at the squeal. I replicate this as my new form, she pointed to Friday.
A tsunami loomed as Aphrodite transmuted into a new shape, tadpole slithering then walking, chest wider but flatter, legs unshaven and dimpled, style gender-neutral, a goddess or maybe a god this time, or both, why not, sporting boiler-suit and mullet. Maybe they’d become an artist this time instead of being the one painted, or join a co-op or community garden, after moving to the West Side of Providence. Like lovers skipping off the beach, she tucked Friday under her armpit. They strolled like friends on a downtown sidewalk, when people accept each other completely, the filthiest of gods among us.
