A man sees Artemis bathing,
a mountain pool at midnight, her place of power.
Her hair is the black river’s glass,
her skin bone-white and moonlit,
her eyes the great twinkling dark of the night sky
and her smile filled
with baying hounds and
a child-like simplicity
a man might mistake
for harmlessness.
In this, our chosen reading
of the myth, he only pauses too long;
in others,
he will try to
force himself upon her.
No matter: the insult
remains the same.
The goddess sees him
his mouth open, catching flies,
his eyes glazed;
and Actaeon becomes prey,
a stag, devoured
by his own hounds. How
awful, how evil, I had thought,
when once I read this story. All that
for looking? How could anyone
fault him that?
But I am older now.
I understand.
