Ariadne
by and published in Edition Five of Pomegranate
After a long flight
and two days spent trapped in a hostel, we reached
Knossos, and then the labyrinth – stones
spat out into the soil like paving-slabs,
designed by Daedalus the artificer to hold
the Minotaur (a Black Kite
sailed above us, out of sight). You
say that history is unimpressive, then
point fingers at ants, their
taut feet forever marching home
only thread antennae
for telling tales. Back at the hostel you
dabbed up a skein of blood that had appeared
accidentally in the sink, buried under a scroll
of tanned skin. You’d been preparing lunch.
I gave you a tissue to staunch
the flowing creep from your fingertip.
The next day it was black, curdled
and knotted inside my pocket. Three
weeks later we parted with a thin kiss,
cramped and cinematic. I still have
the black tissue furled up somewhere.
This is my apology: I chose to go
where I knew that you could not follow.
Rees Arnott
Rees Arnott is 19 and has recently decided to give up meat and the patronymic. Undecided on alcohol and pornography. He’s also busy at work on an English degree, at Oxford of all places.