Love Poem with False Labyrinth

by Joseph Mulholland

No narrative framework to counter
a thousand nights of dust blackening
fan wings—just furtive glances flashing
behind eye hole cutouts, the fresh egg-faces
of field hands in the paintings lining
this mock labyrinth’s corridors—the pathos
of each imaginary exit sign. Ghosts slip
through layers of drywall & cheap pine,
the shadows of their hearts flickering like
damp wicks. Silverfish swish three-pronged
tails under floorboards, sweat-stained body
armor glowing fin-de-siècle grey. The jukebox
overheats. Our love isn’t a room full of lightning,
or a waking volcano’s smoke-filled eye.
Our love leads us to the dark center of things—
Ariadne & the Minotaur in a Pietà-pose:
She is cutting burrs from his mane, his large
body sprawled across her lap, light as ash.