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POETRY Print
Version
Melanie Brazzell buoyant fragments Begin trying William Doreski A Novelist's Eye Ryan Quinn Flanagan 26 Years Musings of a Man Impelled to Moments of Mad Wakefulness Kristine Ong Muslim Geek Girl Benjamin Nardolilli Contra Cosmos Caleb Puckett Meeting by Morning Call for Exodus |
Ross
White
A
Roman
And hung there, uncooked meat in his teeth, muttering Hosannah. Hallelujah. Mea culpa. And pressed back by the welts in his palms, ragtag red lions raised on his skin. But lamented his suffering aloud to the Lord, who hears the human body as an instrument. The dried blood, tangle in the thatch of beard, matted like sap above cuts in the lush garden of chest. The trembling at mouth's edge, the weak-knees, the weak-lung, neck-droop, the voice and knell. Would not have sung louder wearing thorns. Would not have sung louder in limp robes. How colossal the error. How dire. How divine a breath, a breath, a breath, a breath. Actaeon
Cursed early, at Chiron’s cave, taught to hunt by a half-breed betraying the better half, slave to the human part atop the steed, Actaeon’s arms grew strong, stable with a bow. But Chiron’s legs remembered, like deer or sable, twitch and danger, a reflex triggered when he held a bow which Actaeon could not affect. How could Actaeon not know, how could Chiron not suspect his wedded body, man to colt, would betray his conscious mind, the hunted, galloping part revolt? Actaeon, deep-forested, hunting hind, came across a bathing goddess. While Artemis looked away, Actaeon could sense nothing amiss: his legs, his whole, bid him stay where Chiron’s might have felt the nag of instinct. Nude Artemis, for his stare, made Actaeon a stag, his tongue mute to reminisce, his new hind legs tense for flight. He sensed what Chiron never taught as he slipped into the Parnithian night on slender calves too easily caught. |
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