The Stag
No name that
was sufficient to encompass all she
felt,
sometimes she was Princess, sometimes
harlot, sometimes slave.
Tonight she was Diana.
Light of foot with dangerous tresses
flying helter-skelter,
she chased her quarry through the
moonlight forests
of a secretary's dream world.
Swift and agile, she burst through
the shadows,
a spear's dark shaft held tight in
her hand,
its point unbearably sharp.
He
was in the thicket. She could smell
his musk,
and her heart pounded high in her
chest.
"Oh, Stag," she whispered, "I will find you, I will
have you."
Suddenly, he stepped before her, proud,head high,
antlers poised in terrible resplendence.
Breath froze in the moonlight, and
death hung nimbly by his fingers
from a pine bow overhead.
The
Stag could not conceive her to be
a threat.
She was so small to be so fierce,
so lean, so soft.
Instead, the incursion of her beauty
ravished him
and for one unbearable moment he raised
his head in pride as if to say:
"Look at me and tremble at my glory!"
Oh Vanity.
Into his heart she plunged the lance
in one clean, perfect thrust.
This was why she was Diana, for this
moment, for this sweet cruelty.
He
shuddered, opened his mouth as if
to gasp and died.
Then, his soul appeared like a bubble
on his tongue.
She took it and held it to her heart
and placed it gently in a fur-lined
pouch that hung around her neck.
Then
time unfroze.
The great beast tumbled, knocking
her to the ground,
his warm weight pressing heavily against
her.
With a sudden twist the lifeless head
turned,
and an antler catching her bodice
cut her breast
so that a tiny spot of blood appeared.
She
cherished the blood and wept in her
bed
for the great warm beast whose life
she had willed away.
Stretching between the cool sheets
she pulled up her nightgown,
Then, glancing at the clock to make
sure it was set,
she returned to make magic with the
soul she had stolen,
hiding it in a special place between
her legs.
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