Podarge

The wind was once my husband and I bore him 
sons, horses that carried Achilles to Troy. 

I may look like this now: rusting, yellow-toothed, 
the smell of yesterday’s supper on my breath, 

a reputation for teasing the blind, deafening 
those who dared to ensnare me unfairly. 

Before Hesiod, I was the very standard 
of beauty --angel-haired, with the softest plumage, 

more sought after than those showoff  Sirens.
My breasts have nursed a thousand yet none 

whom I’ve suckled will defend me now, ashamed
they cannot distinguish mother from aunts, 

nor discern squall from dark vengeance and sounds
of thunder from petty grievances of men.

At the end of the first week of American Sonnet female poems! whew!