Actaeon

Castor,
through the pennywort,

glimpsed a clearing.
And in the clearing—

a lake.
In the lake, Pollux.

He made
tidal waves

with the soft pale
insides of his arms.

The lake,
where Pollux stood,

was shallow.
It stopped

just below
his little boy chest

like a swampy dress
needing pulling up.

His nipples
were the smallest acorns,

the smallest, least ruminated
beginnings of trees.

And beside Castor,
caught in the pennywort,

the shirt and pair of shorts,
identical to Castor's own.

Save these were flung
and Castor's worn.

The shirt.
The pair of shorts

with a little metal clasp
on the pocket

for clipping things.
And this wasn't

the first time
Castor

watched Pollux
in the bath.

And surely Pollux
had seen Castor

pretending
to be a mermaid,

teasing
with his pretend tail

the voracious sailors.
But this

was the first time
Castor watched Pollux

watch Castor
and that sequence

could have gone
on and on.

In another telling,
Pollux,

like Diana,
shot Castor

with an arrow
through the heart.

And later,
A constellation,

Castor could spy
on any boy

in any lake
in any clearing,

anywhere
in the world.

Copyright © 2006 Michael Snediker All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission