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photo by Robert Meier Under the chill and luminous sign of a November moon, a personal past, as it unfolds, awakens an ancient prototype of encounter with the man/beast, and of love’s betrayals. Out of memory’s labyrinth, in a rich mixture of metaphor and rue, these strong, sorrowing poems announce a resolve, and with it, a change of light: “when I decided to live, the moon waxed.”
--Eleanor Wilner Available from Finishing Line Press www.finishinglinepress.com and Amazon.com
| The sheer pleasure
of outwitting monsters—I was never a match
for their strength—lives on
but after running
the Minotaur through in the endless
alley of his prison, his look
of uncomprehending
hurt—animal lust on top of a human body
I followed the yarn
out, how to say
fulfillment didn’t last like
what led to it
one more struggle
behind me, her soft arms ahead
the girl I’d abandon to the gods
a night—no two—
of bliss followed by wailing
when she wakens to see
my black sail clutching wind
we won’t hear under the creak
of our rigging, under the cloak
of forgetting
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