Don’t get in the water,

Artemis is poised in the air,
crescent,
like a scythe blade,
finger arched,
ready to sow a seed into broken soil,
usher a coffin into the grave,
her face as blank as eclipse,
she lures a flower in - a maiden burned like she is from Apollo’s fire.

Artemis says,
“The water will cool your tongue,
drink, before drought, “

The daisy catches in her current,
ties to push against her tide,
the Apollo-kind writhes,
pounding against the silver frost sealing her in.
She froths under the surface,
roots rotting from the rain,
severing the synapses of her meadow freckled brain,

the main ingredient for Artemis’s burn,

punishing a god by providing an example.

Artemis reflects on the exhale-fogged surface
with a waxing grin,

leaving the cemetery,
full from triumph,
content with her garden,
until another weed needs to be plucked.

So please, don’t get in the water.
© Kate M. Sine