Ariadne Kneels Beside the Slain Minotaur
Theseus reminds me of you, brother:
he leapt from the railing of his ship
more like a captain than a slave.
He bellowed your name on the docks,
swung his manacles at the guards,
used anything at hand for a weapon.
He looked at me the way you used to
when we were little: See what
our Father makes us do—before
you claimed the labyrinth, before
blood matted your hair into a pelt
and you traded words for screams.
In the end, it was the only freedom
you had: to own the labyrinth, to rage.
You sharpened your hate on the stones
of your prison, buried it in the guts
of the men sent to you. The ships
stank of fear before the victims saw
your unbarred gates; they surrendered
long before they heard the scrape
of iron hooves on cobblestones.
Despite the walls, despite the turns
that penned you in, your name was known
outside your maze. I have nothing.
I was watching in the shadows when he
swung the sword I gave him through
your neck. It’s not that I love Theseus
more than you—I’ll score my cheeks
and cut my hair in grief for you.
Theseus is nothing more than passage
off this island, a way to escape the men
Father parades through my rooms.
They look at me like you looked
at tribute women: someone to impale
and eat. I thought I would find freedom,
but suddenly I am the monster in the maze.