Ariadne Sends a Message by Margaret Atwood Now that our tasty liaison is over, the monster slaughtered, the palace going under, the black-draped ships embarked, and I’m stuck on this feckless island with a dipsomaniac in lion skins, and you’ve sailed off to do your father and pretend it was an accident, like the hypocrite you are I might as well tell you: the minotaur was my friend. Or not friend. More like an associate. I’d go in there through the labyrinth, which I knew in the dark, luckily, because it was always dark, holding on to my silver thread, and consult him about things. What thing? you wonder. You know—the future, the death of kings, the meanings of snakeskins and birds’ intestines. His answers were exact, Though muffled. In return I brought him morsels. Youths with edged weapons and grandiose plans, like you. I stood on the far side of the room, steering clear of the horns. He could get out of hand and was prone to tantrums. In the food fights, he always won, and would have won against you too, if I hadn’t cheated. I spiked the wine, what else? I thought I was trading prophecy for love. Bad choice. But I’ve got news for you: You’ve made a bad choice too. #williwaw_reads_poetry