After Donna Tartt
Sweet Artemis, tell me: the chase is on.
Each night, I dream of woods and hills where grow
Concatenated rows of climbing vines
And gardens pressed with unrelenting yews,
Behind which hide with wide unknowing eyes
The objects of my fearless new desire.
These sylvan groves are dark and cool at night,
And voices join in song though I protest;
The arrows which you gave me now are spent:
I cannot help but long for what is left.
I here renounce the pleasures of the hearth:
I leave behind these mirrors I have known.
I raise instead a free and brimming glass,
Awake, alive, and ready for my own.
By M I A I