ZoeBee

Hundreds of fingers have tried to clean our brass menorah
Old wizened ones, covered in burns from oven racks and cuts from vegetable peelers
Smelling like my grandmothers' perfume 

My period likes to make an appearance at Shaws on the third Saturday of each month
I know the dents of the stainless steel door in stall 1 like how the shadows know the moon

Thy woods be not for conquering
But for running swift and long
From wolf, towards deer
With river, on earth
Ye ivy be not for pruning
But unfurling and undoing
His forest be not for lumber
But the sweet low song of oak trees

Bluebirds with cigars outside my windows
Songs mixed with rasp and tobacco
Smell like wood stoves and grandfather jackets
Bluebirds in bowler hats 
Feathers of blackbirds about the brim

My mind is no Minotaur
My mind is no medusa or scylla, siren or Cerberus
This limbic system is a labyrinth
It's not hungry and not murderous
There are only hallways and doors without locks

She tells me to focus on the ring when he proposes 
Not the thin hands holding it
Fingers ink-stained, already absent
Knuckles puffing out and somewhere
The puzzle piece of a woman's face pushing in