AND THE HECATE
in the mechanical bed,
bound by stuffed mittens,
breathing by beeping hose,
her pulse rate, heart rate, brain rhythms and lung capacities
a constellation around us in the darkened room.
There are stars, Ariadne,
your unrequited love.
You were our lives,
and your webs our ties with you,
you the weaver,
you the hanged man,
you the Hecate,
the maid, mother and crone all in one
a white, fragile web in the dark
while machines give you breath and life
as you would have none on your own.
what do you weave there,
where no one can see?
You wake hoarse,
and tangled in all your knitting.
You see me
and don’t remember.
But I will always remember these days, my sisters.
When Ariadne began to sew,
About the Author: Margaret Crocker is an artist, writer, wife, mother, daughter, sister and thief. She collects stray animals and has this weird fantasy of being on The Great British Baking Show, despite the fact she uses a bread machine. She knows little but proclaims much. There is much we don’t know about her.
More By Margaret Crocker
Image Credit: “Ariadne in Naxos” by Evelyn de Morgan (1877)