Artemis: Diana, Again

by Jim Davis

She peeled back petals of the rose
to the core, where our world was.
Now that ephemera been shed, she sings
about a picture of you
bound in a skein of guitar strings –
more specifically, the you that sat at the campfire
on a section of stump taken from the woodshed
at Elmwood Terrace.\\

One day, the absence of familiarity
with a notion like love will fall away, drift to the grass
like petals. Soft, humming sentiment
to which I would
like to identify with
less. Though my cheek bone is swollen
like ripe purple fruit, I design
a map of the far side of this earth’s moon – the width of these
United States. Callisto, Ganymede, circle Jupiter
in an orbit that will one day collide, their tragedies

Mare Imbrium
Mare Tranquillitatis
Mare Nectaris – where once was water.
And Oceanus Procellarum – the vessel
of one of my weekend poisonings
pouring itself into the pocked face of Diana: ours.\\

Diana, in the early 60s, was a fat, waxing gibbous.
Unlike the waning crescent of this and every day
between 1969 and 1972, when we walked all over her.

Now hear this, you: the practitioners of Santeria
take the head from a Burmese python with a rusted kitchen tool
in praise. Far away, we stab, we enter

that face of moon, pocked and cratered - hung over
the city of my big shoulders, to be congruent
in all our corresponding angles, in pure, Anglo-Saxon text

to be read by false light. The hunt. The violent language of
everything, once it has been, explained.\\