qarrtsiluni

by Leslie Ann Minot

sturdy, but not strong enough
to hang herself with, and long,

useful for tying tomatoes
in spring and early summer,
for bundling flattened boxes,
or for the coarser kind of kite.

Her friend has been making maps of emptiness,
the spaces in between
the islands’ separateness,
a blankness crossed by lines.

In the hardware store, Ariadne takes her time,
running her fingers through the bins of nails
and screws, shiny and full of hope
that the world can hold together.

She sings in her native tongue, softly,
making sure the old man at the counter sees her.

They say she’s a witch, how else
could she come here dishonored and marry
the island’s richest god? A foreigner,
she knows she can make them say anything
by wearing red patent-leather slingback pumps
every day of summer, even on the mountain’s
twisting goat tracks.

It’s the untangling that matters.

These climbs are nothing
if you’ve walked barefoot from your past
and stumbled into joy.

The twine is cheap, and gossip costs still less.
The town is hungry for it.

Her friend may shrug. “Witchcraft—who believes?”
But grief is superstitious. Ariadne thinks
her friend will be preoccupied with twine.
Unwinding. Finding uses.
She hopes for long enough.

Ariadne knows: Grief is not about
the shortest distance between two points.
It’s about getting out alive.

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Leslie Ann Minot received an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College in 2004, and has previously published poetry and translations of poetry in The Chicago Review, The Red Rock Review, New Letters, and neon geyser/porcelain sky. She has published critical articles in The European Romantic Review and Excavatio, as well as in collections on Victorian sensation fiction, Caribbean literature, Georges Sand, and Muriel Rukeyser.