Blackbird an online journal of literature and the arts Spring 2008 Vol. 7 No. 1



The Minotaur Speaks

The queen lay in the hollow
of a wooden cow so my father
would mount her, his white hide
glistening like a raw moon.
To love is to look up, up, up.
She named me Asterius,
the starry one. When the king
heard my birth cry, he raised
black curtains to every window
in Crete. He began to build.
My father was led away by a rope
around his neck. My mother
gave me the apple of her breast,
and I bit it off. To love is to feed
and feed again. My room
has thirty-two walls, no doors,
no chair, no light, no mirror.
I touch a face that is leather
and horns and mine, mine, mine.
They say this man has flaxen hair,
a mouth so fine the gods
beg him to speak. They say
my death will make him
a hero. Everyone loves a hero,
but a hero only loves you
until he reaches the next island.
This is my only island. To love
is to unwind the long thread
of your heart and, at the end, tie
a noose. Love, come and get me.  

return to top