It's time for this ritual again
as the quarry has appeared,
moving out in the rough like
a jewel--I have seen them
like pure white elk or
perfect red heifers or
an ebony doe, streaking
free and unminded
and then brought down
by a thousand arrows:
or at least, by Heaven!
the men will try.
Every one of them an attempted sacrifice
to the withered limb of a
bitter little god with a face
like a dried-out apple.
Powerful witches who had to be
stopped, lest their magic shrink men
to the size they want women to be.
The hunters shout after them: "Medusas! Jezebels!"
as they watch the desired prey,
uncovered hair waving like
tired snakes threatening to snatch
these sorry heroes like
fish in a net. They cry like dogs,
sent raving mad after a
flaming brush disappearing into a field--
until the grass itself is set afire
with her brilliance.
They could never hold what they intend to catch;
but they would see it destroyed.
