Photo by David Cohen via Unsplash

Minotaur

Somewhere on the outskirts of the body
the gulls are trying their wings
. on gusts of wind.
Somewhere the foghorn announces danger
at low tide and billows break
. over hidden rocks
the way sleep breaks
over the submerged cliffs
. of consciousness.

I spill into the world all anew,
carried forth by the amniotic gush
. of half-dreamed words.
No newborns are ugly,
though some turn out more handsome
. than others.
But who’s to profess judgment,
when we all are sinking lead, bait
. for what lurks beneath,
when the line
we hold in our hands
. leads directly to the beast?

The morning is yielding
its foggy pastels to brighter
. tempera. Soon,
I will slip into familiar skin,
utter the names
. of these almost forgotten
alleys of veins and arteries,
learn to inhabit again
. the labyrinth of my body.