Winter Labyrinth on the Night of a Lunar Eclipse
What Yeats called the labyrinth of another’s being
Has nothing in common with this mythic path’s release,
The pith-and-substance aftermath, the freeing –
Once you’ve circled the maze – into peace.
When she was seventeen she thought she was seeing,
In his twisty allure, a mystery-lover’s feast,
Enigma variations for beginners, a pebbled circuit of meaning…
Even now she loves him; but she’s come ’round, at least,
To the true geometry of her own heart’s weaving:
How the coiling and coiling then was her own bully-beast,
Wanting him to be the mechanism of her freeing.
Mysterious, how the love never ceased.