Ariadne Thread

Beautiful nomad, beautiful child,
you cannot cut the train you drag.
Cross as many miles as you like, my love,
wend through desert bones and dying forests –
there are always threads from you to me.

And I am tangled up, all arms and legs, and pasted
to a wall in a cold city, near an open window
where a breeze will always blow across our naked bodies,
will curl sometimes into ears wet with crying.

But if one day you turned, and traced
your Ariadne thread, it would not end with me,
or your cousin,
or your father –

it would wind all the way to God.
You would find him bound in it as I am,
silent, loving, melancholy.  And at his bleeding feet
you’d see two frayed ends –

One, the beginning of the labyrinth,
one, the end.