She handed me this ball of red thread
as if I were to knit him a girdle,
a bloody shawl to wrap around
the muscled column that holds his Taurian head.
Thread. A woman’s gift. I rarely think
of women in their place, enclosed and separate,
patiently weaving and dyeing
while men, wrapped in their rich labors
put our shoulders to the work of war.
We kill the monsters we create by
crossing our pride with the wrath of spiteful gods.
Meanwhile the women are waiting, waiting
for our return. Let them wait.

This world is a challenge, I am ready,
shield buckled to my wrist, knives at the ready,
sharpened and ready to sing.
I work my way to the heart of the maze
and slay the beast beating at its center.
To slay a beast, you become one.
But first, this girl, with her soft skin
and whispered, urgent instructions.
I listen, nod, trail the red thread
behind me, a track of blood,
a long unspooled viscera
that will bring me back to betray her.