I imagine your lips / purse and stretch:
An unhinging, a delectation. At the center of / the labyrinth
Was found a monster. You are the monster,
And your words the spool / of twine.
What care / had Andromeda for the
Ravening? What shame had Ariadne /
For her own exultation?
I feed / myself to your mouth. The only
True sacrifices / are the willing.
It’s only in dreams that hands reach for you, only
while sleeping that
That demon comes. Touch. Burning
finger laid along inner thigh, face blank and blurred
when you peer into it. Beloved lines erased, its
soul speaks outside the bounds of cognition.
Your own face accusatory, as you look upon your own
shame. Worse than that touch
is its denial, ephemeral as afterglow.
The author is a librarian and writer in upstate New York. Most recently selections of her short work have appeared in Sword & Kettle Press's mini-chap series, at Lammergeier and Amethyst Review, and in Rhonda Parrish's Arcana anthology. She's often on Twitter @menshevixen talking iced coffee, horses, and heavy metal.
Uncovered logs from the distant past and the future beyond.