It could have been the wild figs and Greek honey
you ate prior to going to bed this warm moonlit night.
You close your eyes and imagine yourself

the ancient hunter Actaeon dressed in skins,
armed with bow, leading your pack of hounds
through the Orchomenus woods to a crystal stream.

As you pause to rest by a large sacred rock, you
are struck by the sight of the virgin Artemis, goddess
of wild things, Apollo's twin, enjoying her ritual bath.

Never have you seen such beauty. The throbbing
in your temple is the measure of your heart beats.
Chaste Artemis, now attentive to shadow movements

at water's edge, looks toward distant Olympus,
commanding the moon to slip inside a dark cloud
lest you boast that you observed her nakedness.

In that instant you are attacked by daggers of light
that transform you into a terrified stag. When
the moon returns you are pursued through the night

by your own dogs. Before you can leap from bed
to declare that you are captive of a moonlight myth,
a dog's bark reminds you that you are not immortal.