How odd it was
her skin growing hollow
a sheepskin drum
hungry in the night.
And the days were hers alone.
Days of quiet
steps along hardwood.
Days sprawled across her funeral pyre
shielded from the dull morning light,
Dido,
clutching her lover’s knife
as she watched the ships set sail.
Her hands fumbled with one another curiously
ardently
Her back pressed against the cool glass
Ariadne,
wandering across her island prison
feeling the sand between her toes
Her hair fanned out about her head
She stood.
Her toes pressing against the porcelain floor
Venus,
rising from the sea
sheathed in ivory foam.
How odd it was