The Line Between Moons and Roses

Artemis would hunt by the light of the moon, but also

she was the moon, which was confusing, but perhaps it’s just

that she didn’t need no light to guide her, the light was in her,

flicking out from her finger tips, washing over trees and

stags and it light was so perfect, so primal, so

pure because of the whole turning men to beasts thing,   

because she had promised some lines she wouldn’t cross,

dammit, she promised

 

When Aphrodite rose on the sea (all that shell crap

was bullshit, she didn’t need support) she was just what

happened when you mixed up the blood good and hot and

she always ended up being the one to stumble

in with the Sun (but they were Greek and gods

so it was all kosher) and if her sister was the moon

than someone had to get their kicks

 

It’s a thin line, trust me, I came real close to tripping over it just now –

me, so pale I reflect light from the sun in darkness –

I almost tripped, spiraled, couldn’t see fifteen feet in front of me

but, somehow found her straightened arrow. You know,

we were raised Episcopalian – with just a dash of Catholic suffering,

heard a bunch about the virgin birth and the chastity of saints.

But you know, sometimes I wonder why

 

My sister grows a lot of roses, nurturing names like

Sweet Akita and New Dawn. She plants them each July, midsummer

washing her gold hair in heat and she pricks her pointer on

a thorn and blood wells and smears across her bare thighs.

My sister usually skipped Sunday School, licked frosting

from the Coffee Hour cookies and played chase with

Robbie from next door, and I never narc’ed

and sometimes I wonder what lesson I missed