The Minotaur
Let me tell you—you Humans,
you heroes of the sharpened sticks
and plate helmets:
it’s shite being the Minotaur.
Imagine: My home is a massive
ruins—a maze no less,
the walls always moving,
the way out always running
street-rat crazy for its life.
And every hundred years or so
my man-body senses
one of its own within the walls.
It tingles with a desire
to embrace the stranger
like a father, like a baby boy.
And every time my man arms and legs
want nothing but to give pure love
to that sweet-smelling stranger,
my bull-head and testicles
track them down
and smash them with a club
that’s always at arm’s reach.
—Jon Boisvert, Corvallis, OR
