an instrument for making fabric by weaving

The diagnosis: Briar Rose mapped every corridor

in hunt of  her hurt, as if pulled by a thread. Curses

can be softened, but not the spindle’s call. I know

what I am destined for: Ariadne’s map, her trembling

monsters pulled taut around my fingers. The ritalin

cannot unweave me. My mind, the lowing of unseen

minotaurs. The inevitable teeth. I do not fear the beasts

of my own making. I fear the making. The sight

of spool. It’s hereditary. My mother used to write

me suicide notes. This is the only thread I have.

There is a door, in a tower, somewhere. If  I push

open its heavy wood, what will greet me? A loom.

The specter of me, spinning. My body hung

from the rafters. The thread finally stilled.