cat’s cradle

i do not remember the reality

Of picking fruit from a cobweb

The perfection of singular design

Destroyed at the poking, prodding hands

of manifold desire

Nor do I spend any time thinking

Of the eleven books

You let me take home

I went to bed with those stories - your stories - chattering wildly

In my mind. Until I was numb to the sound

Of every other medium, noise, or rebound

So I addressed the most ancient Priestess

And vowed, that evening I will become like you

I confess, I will be

matching shades of silk underwear

to the flowers I press

until I am old like you, and I swear

I shall line my bed with watercress

each night to stay shiny, fresh

and fun

It was a destiny, a destination; and I had

arrived. I went from

This point to several, until several points

Made up a whole line

But I came home empty-handed

I came home tactless, and thirty years old

Home to a mountain of reading

to catch up on

I remember an embarrassing pause we took

between Tuesday and Wednesday morning, when I was

Washing my hair, scrubbing my scalp

Getting my youth clean for you

Sat down in front of a mirror, then I saw

I was kneeling to myself

The news broke out

in hives, like many eyes dawning upon me

You did it, not because

I am  a prodigy or saint, no -

I am not a believer, I am no house

of worship -

But because I am dim, I am wandering

And there was no better, bitter reason to run from

Than your imagination

Aren’t all things born from multiplicity?

Aren’t we all part of the same network:

the labyrinth, noose

and quicksand?