Asterion & The River Of Asterion
How many years have I been forgiving myself? Said, haven’t you already forgiven me? Said, really, it was nothing, I was young, we were young. Said, I must still somehow be beautiful and loved by everyone. And you believed me. Rage made its burrows in me, was the lizards beneath my flat stone shoulder blades, was the salmon up my spine, was the saliva in my throat. It is only natural the body inverts itself into a refuge. I lived in the house they built for me. I yelled at my mother from the basement. I yelled at my father when he left the island, when he was far away. My fur was shorn military-short. The labyrinth grew smaller and smaller, I pulled the walls closer to me. Glass-masked and immaculate. I walked around saying, I am wronged, I am so wronged. Or not thinking of it at all. Telling everyone, yes, I have a sister. Telling everyone, yes, she lives in the city, she goes to school. My mother, too, for so long said she had two children. I thought, at least I have staked out territory where I am still right. Above, Ariadne’s bedroom has the same yellow walls. Above, my mother carries the guilt for me, I can feel the weight, her back can’t take it. There used to be birds. There used to be boy scouts. There was a kitchen we all had dinner in. My memory is profound. Yes, I remember. And still, I said, Forgive me already. Or I will live without just fine.
Fox Rinne is a trans poet living in New York. Their poems have been published in Baest, Unsaid Magazine, the Cliffhanger, Silent Auctions, The Sarah Lawrence Review, and elsewhere.
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