Pasiphaë speaks
What remains when the Greeks leave
taking with them all the light of the world?
One glimmer was left and she too has gone,
tucked under his arm,
a parcel of booty to show his father king.
She thought to bind him with a thread,
but he was not susceptible to magic and mystery.
He had no need of a bull mask,
his brow already bone and brute,
the bull that killed the calf
because he had ill-formed feet and a milky smile.
What remains when the light is gone, she asks,
but darkness?
Yes, I know you know, but I’m reminding you.
Very, very well done.