Loving that man was a way of hating God:
useless, and no sense of privacy.
The fates fell, like cats tumbling
down the palace stairs, and soon I fell—
we all fell—so many dry men in Thebes.
Piece by piece was miscast, dissembled:
the crossroads at midnight, men’s bones
shattered against fire-creased iron.
Crowned triumphant, he solved riddles,
told lies, made much of love and daughters.
He of course will spare them the knife.
Yet he never told me how the history
of man and woman was a kind of amnesia,
a handsome riddle unanswered and unasked.
Imagine the fury and fireworks of stories
told by men who can’t see. Imagine
an army and war. Imagine two lovers
who make both bed and grave together.
I am alone, and these bright threads
tangle in their deadliness. Hanging
from the beam, I wish the stars were blind.