Actaeon And Artemis

In Amalfi's Piazza del Duomo,
a marble X marks the spot
of Fontana de Sant'Andrea,
pagan watering hole superimposed
with the martyred fisher of men.

Now well-heeled ragazzi gather
around the lips of the fountain
below a nymph squeezing breasts,
spring water spewing from nipples,
to watch the sea-breeze passegiata,

a parade of young women dressed
as runway courtesans who want
to make the boys boil over  till
they'll say I do to any demand –
this is not the land of one night stands.

The Basilica's bell-tower looms,
inlaid with tiles so it appears
a saint's skull whose mouth tolls
iron weight of time and tradition.
Inside the Virgin and Son glow golden.

Outside, a pony-tailed hero flexes
biceps as he cups and sips
from one of the breasts then
whistles at a tourist on the balcony
who smiles and looks away

as he unwinds a mountain lark
like erotically curling octave
to no avail.  So he struts back
to the gang of vespa riders
snug against the farmacia wall.

Behind them, inside a glass case,
under a plaque that dates 1837,
an 8 point trophy buck-head
stares over all the young hunters,
and the girls who lure them out.

But if, finally, one of these Actaeons
catches a glimpse of Artemis naked,
and she turns to ask him to tell
what he sees, he will be all stutters
and antlers caught in underbrush

till he pulls free and thrashes out
chased by his own dog pack
to the beach as the darkening sky
merges with the deep blue sea,
that horizon line of desire and fear.

They'll marry, and she will work
at the family sea-food restaurant
and bear three children while he tries
to find work in Naples, and they will
never take a vacation from this resort.

But their daughters will wear trendy
fashions as they delight the cobblestones,
and their son will stand where boys do –
at the fountain between the cool nymph