No narrative framework to counter
a thousand nights of dust blackening
fan wings—just furtive glances flashing
behind eye hole cutouts, the fresh egg-faces
of field hands in the paintings lining
this mock labyrinth’s corridors—the pathos
of each imaginary exit sign. Ghosts slip
through layers of drywall & cheap pine,
the shadows of their hearts flickering like
damp wicks. Silverfish swish three-pronged
tails under floorboards, sweat-stained body
armor glowing fin-de-siècle grey. The jukebox
overheats. Our love isn’t a room full of lightning,
or a waking volcano’s smoke-filled eye.
Our love leads us to the dark center of things—
Ariadne & the Minotaur in a Pietà-pose:
She is cutting burrs from his mane, his large
body sprawled across her lap, light as ash.
Joseph Mulholland is from Albuquerque, New Mexico. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Journal, Bayou, Beecher’s, Whisky Island, The Carolina Quarterly, and Notre Dame Review. He currently lives in San Juan and is a graduate student at the University of Puerto Rico.