The moon is brooding again in the late night sky.
And the oxbow lake appears beneath the stars
as something sated—the becalmed and congealing waters
stalling another Achaean fleet, the alluvial smells of the swamp
amid the pickerelweeds.
So who is it that we must sacrifice tonight?
In ancient Sparta poor souls would be whipped
before a sacred image of Artimis then forced to issue
their erotic seed to mingle with the blood
and conjure fertile land.
But I keep wishing there were one version of the story
where Agamemnon disbanded his army and drew
his daughter close and safe against his chest,
where the cottonmouths weren't forever slipping
into the black waters, where the alligator snapping turtles
weren't forever floating up from the dark loam.