Pasiphaë and her son managed
to loosen themselves from their ligatures.
They began groping for gaps in the stone
with their blind fingers, and blankness felt
like hope till the moment hardness resumed.
At last they discovered a long corridor
that seemed to twist in tightening circles
toward the mountain’s center, and Pasiphaë couldn’t
squeeze her body though the squishing bore—
a solitary kernel in a cyclops sieve.
Pasiphaë implored her son: Escape!
The tunnel might force you to return to this spot,
but if it allows a look at the sky,
forget your mother: you must escape!
My life will dissolve in Zeus’s cradle,
but your grandfather will get his revenge.
Remember the place where he appears at dawn,
and keep it to your left, till you come to the coast,
and find a boat that’ll bear you to Egypt,
a country that considers the sun the king
of the gods: only Greeks and Cretans
have pretended Zeus deserves that title.
I know you’ll be happy where the Nile gushes.