Artemis
In your dream I had the body of a deer,
drug my brown pelt along the rough edges of birches
until I stepped out and met you as woman—
each day the river is fuller
than the day before,
but doesn’t change course.
A myth is like chalk in the throat,
or a veil draped over a face.
Through it, I saw everything peeling
back, the desert clay cracked like a lisp
in its thirst, the woman’s body parting,
then carried away.
drug my brown pelt along the rough edges of birches
until I stepped out and met you as woman—
each day the river is fuller
than the day before,
but doesn’t change course.
A myth is like chalk in the throat,
or a veil draped over a face.
Through it, I saw everything peeling
back, the desert clay cracked like a lisp
in its thirst, the woman’s body parting,
then carried away.
March / April 2023
Jen Grace Stewart is the author of Madonna, Complex (Cascade Books 2020), Latch (River Glass Books 2019) and Visitations (Finishing Line Press 2015). Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in AGNI, Colorado Review, Beloit Poetry Journal and elsewhere. A native of Colorado, she teaches writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder.
Art: Aiyana Masla. The Journey. Watercolor