or, The Labor of Pasiphae
BY DR. AGONSON
A monster grows inside my tender womb;
his horns, not dull, already sprout and pierce.
No fleshy toes are his, but like my groom
—a union by Poseidon made, his fierce,
unstable wrath stoked by my true husband’s
hubristic greed to not return, but love
too much, the earth-shaker’s given omen—
hard hooves for feet possess. He kicks! What of
my passions born by god’s vile judgement,
where has desire flown? O Daedale,
your craft, why can’t it be quite innocent?
What good comes from your intellect this day?
The pangs of birth have like a wave rocked me,
sweeping the unwary far out to sea.