She leads us through the maze
of rooms and officers-
a labyrinth that never seems to end.
But where’s the minotaur?
I wonder glancing at the woman,
my Virgil, in a green sweater a size too big.
she finds the room and sits across from us.
you squeeze my hand; I guess I’m glad you're here,
but I’d rather fly-
I need an escape from this reality,
a pair of candle wax wings
to remove myself from the beast’s path.
Virgil makes you leave my side
and I’m left to sit on the lumpy couch
in the 9th layer, not so cold, but burning hot.
I begin my journey out,
diving into the layers of this horror,
until I’m forced to reach my epiphany:
In the silence of the room, at the
center of this labyrinth, I realize
that I’ve done no wrong.
From here, Virgil and I begin to ascend,
back through the labyrinth,
Leaving my wax wings behind.
From reality to realization to ascent. I like this poem, Kirsten!
ReplyDeleteI also like that we now have a stretch of five poems by five authors! Check out the Poems index.
In a complex April Break--Em, Katerina and I off from the international school while the boys had to trudge as snails to the Czech school, and too many deadlines and projects mounted when spring finally sprung in a Gulf Streamless Europe--this poem, Kirsten, buoyed my own writing process. I'm half-way through the story of a Moldovan young man who tries his luck at bullfighting in Spain, and since the risk is minimal to his sponsors, he has his ephemeral moments of glory (along with dire reality checks). I chose a female companion for him named Beatriz--the Spanish way 'Beatrice' would be spelled--because that angelic figure leads Dante's narrator in 'The Divine Comedy' through the rings of Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradisio. Virgil is also of utmost importance in this journey, and all mythos celebrates, commiserates, contemplates anew with our own ventures through such rings and labyrinths. We are, like Beatrice, buoyed in a grace that transcends our understanding or step-by-step deliberations. "I've done no wrong" is a baptismal agon, and thank God as babies (whatever age we are) we are affirmed of this assurance throughout our lives, through Jesus' death and resurrection. My Beatriz won't accompany maimed Bogdan back to Moldova--she's only human, after all; but there he will embrace a monk's vocation, leaving his 'wax wings' behind. Gracias por esa poema!
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