Aren’t you sick of Greek myths? So removed
from reality. Sick of Oedipus killing his father again
and again on his way to Thebes. Sick of therapists
telling us we want to marry our mother, therapists
who obviously have never met our mother.
What of Odysseus killing the suitors, all bloody 108
of them, manipulated by Penelope weaving her ridiculous
shroud to look like a loyal wife. But sleeping with Telemachus.
Or Heracles slaughtering lions and hydras, bulls and boars.
Doesn’t he have anything better to do? We yawn.
But here’s the thing. We really do need you, Ariadne.
Are you still sleeping on Naxos, dreaming of Theseus
who left you behind, who never really cared,
more concerned with the bloody head of the Minotaur
tucked under his shoulder, hastening back to Athens,
too stuffed with heady success to change the sail,
to think of his father, to think of you who risked your life.
Wake Ariadne! We have lost the red thread to guide us,
the ball of yarn that leads out of the labyrinth
of lies, deception, duplicity, and betrayal.
Let us stumble toward dawn’s rising light,
our tangled hearts unknotting.
Grey Sparrow Journal 