Creative Submission: Clarissa Keen’s Mythic Musing

Artemis

Bellezza è negli occhi del’osservatore.

I dream in visions:

The senses linger deep beneath the surface of the soul,

through the calluses of my bones,

through the crevasses in my heart,

I resurface

to the messes

left from the morning’s hunt.

I clean my arrows sharp.

The glister of my bow

in the viscous moonlight,

like mercury pouring through my hand,

beads in a pool around me.

The guts of the buck spill out

across my bare feet:

warm and gentle.

This silver does not shine.

I am surrounded by men,

—Orion, Apollo, Actaeon—

they cannot touch me.

I am the beholder,

not the beauty.

I am the chaste lover of the hunt.

But in my dreams, there are soft lips

of a passionate kiss.

I moan

like the fawn

wanting to suckle,

as they pull away.

Then I’m choking on my soul:

hard and cold.

My eyes open,

and all I see are stars.

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