an instrument for making fabric by weaving
The diagnosis: Briar Rose mapped every corridor
in hunt of her hurt, as if pulled by a thread. Curses
can be softened, but not the spindle’s call. I know
what I am destined for: Ariadne’s map, her trembling
monsters pulled taut around my fingers. The ritalin
cannot unweave me. My mind, the lowing of unseen
minotaurs. The inevitable teeth. I do not fear the beasts
of my own making. I fear the making. The sight
of spool. It’s hereditary. My mother used to write
me suicide notes. This is the only thread I have.
There is a door, in a tower, somewhere. If I push
open its heavy wood, what will greet me? A loom.
The specter of me, spinning. My body hung
from the rafters. The thread finally stilled.
