Ariadne Has Forgotten That the Minotaur is Dead

The loose string of a threadbare rug
unravelled and free and stitching together
the rooms of the house through which
it passes.
A homely tapestry, scene to
scene the story is hard to
follow. A spin off of a
spin off, a missing detail which
links something cosmic and strange.

It points to a door:
exit or entrance?
There is no compass for this map.

I want to mend the rug, take
the thread through a silver
eye and close the wound.
I have run out of butterfly
bandages, and I have readied the
theatre with bleach and heavy red curtains.

The rug sits uneven and mountainous as
tectonic plates of dirt beneath crown
the surface.
I lift the edge to sweep yet
more into its hungry mouth but
the broom’s bristles are resistant and
the handle splinters in my fingers.
It has grown resentful and
I have grown weary and
the thread has grown longer.

Photo courtesy of Lida Sahafzadeh

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