Another Love Poem
She seems a god to us, who stands on hilltops,
string tangled in her fingers, waiting for the wind
to snap the kite out of her hands. Scraps
from her kite making afternoon drift back to us—
snagged on wire, shredded in the bushes.
In the end, she coiled her broken string, walked
away from us. We mark the tracks her feet
left in the dust and try to follow her; her laughter
echoes back to us: I never thought to touch the sky
Pinocchio
He sells the watch Gepetto gave him
the day he quit the shop.
The surgeon shows him pictures;
he picks the one he wants:
The swelling will make it grow,
he says, laughing.
For a moment, Pinocchio thinks
of Gepetto
carving puppets by the fire, tries
to imagine what he’d say.
It’s the surgeon’s voice he hears,
asking if he’s ready.
Across town, an old man lies in a cold bed.
The last coals flicker and die.
Dear Midas,
You said we could build a house of soup cans,
that the labels would turn into wallpaper.
We could sleep on newspaper stuffed in plastic,
like pioneers curled around each other
on corn-husk mattresses. You called the moon
our nightlight; we toasted each other
with wineglasses filled with rainwater.
I’d forgotten how humidity makes labels peel,
how plastic melts in too much heat.
How the moon burns out each month.
This morning, vacuuming, I found the box
of condoms: one missing, the rest expired.
Just a phase, you said. Stressed from work.
We’ll rediscover intimacy without sex—
words held up to my lips like caviar. I swallowed
them because you asked, but after all this time
it turns out they are nuggets I can’t digest.
Eve Escapes the Nursing Home
Adam finds her in the greenhouse again, touching
the stem of a tulip in this corner, the petals of a rose
in the next; her eyes take in peonies, gardenias,
carnations, lilies while her feet shuffle through
the rows, her fingers trail through just-watered dirt.
She tests the weight of each bloom in her hand, gauges
color, texture. She never smiles, never pulls a pot
from a table. He would have bought it for her,
brought it home and watered it on the days she can’t
remember how to hold a fork, bring a glass to her lips.
But her hands pick at stem and leaf, bud and thorn
unsatisfied while Adam trails behind, waiting for her
to turn and recognize him, for the inevitable question
in her eyes: Where is my garden?
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.