Artemis and Actaeon They were both hunters. Actaeon came upon
Artemi.s bathing and he spied upon her. To punish him she turned him into a stag and he was torn to pieces by his own hounds.
Afterwards we came upon the letters — About a month after the 'accident'.
They were thick as leaves underneath the bed, Tossed there in a storm of hopelessness.
We had tried to warn him Artemis was rough — Cool as the moon to chase her own career: Wimbledon and Forest Hills and Cannes — A triple trophy netted in a year.
She never would have made a wife for him, Despite the passion of their brief affair.
She'd tear him down as surely as the hounds Of Actaeon tore their master down.
There they were strewn beneath the bed — His letters — all returned with a callous note: 'Why do you males manipulate our sex? It's not my style. Go hunt a piece of fluff.' His pleas for understanding were like screams Pouring from the thickets of despair; Her single answer ruthless as an arrow: 'You impose, you drool, you stare. . . I've had enough.'
By the time they threw the giant lever Only his pieces were left for them to count: Minced in seconds by the adamant Machines that were his pride — in his own plant.
Paul Roche
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