She shared a womb with the monster;
this is something everyone has forgotten.
She was born first,
rose pink and healthy,
lustily shouting.
He was
the twisted afterthought,
blackened and horrid,
with horns and hooves,
eerily silent
with eyes open to the sky.
The joy of Ariadne was
deserted, perverted, even
as they bundled her away from
her monstrous twin.
The rest of her childhood
she was scrubbed and anointed,
cherished and feared. For always
her weaving, her play,
her very beauty carried
the faint scent
of disease.
