the sea all white: I won’t let go. She dove
ahead, and jealousy’s momentum drove
her to the rudder, but her daring caught
the eye of her unhatched father, who then sought
to break his beak in on her virgin skull.
She heard some chirping, but it was no gull.
She dreaded drowning less than orange wings.
She let go of the stern, but fleeting rings
did not adorn her impact: talons spun
fall into flight. To overtake the sun
was all her thought, and newfound wings forestalled
a wide wet grave. Now in the air she’s called
Kiris, a name that stuck because she sliced
her father’s lock off. Crete’s king sacrificed
a hundred bulls when his fleet brought him home;
the bloody brackets pinked the briny foam
just to fulfill a vow he’d made to Zeus.
Megaran trophies tried to reproduce
in every room if not on every wall
his northern glories, but a fitful bawl
from one room in the palace neutralized
the victories his absence compromised.
Pasiphaë’s inhuman fornication
had cornified a growing bifurcation.