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.
