Rebecca Seiferle

Issue #
September 27, 2015

After the Myth

When I met you and you held out
your hand, something in your movement reminded me
of cranes, their feathers flared, your neck’s angle of interest,
and I remembered how Theseus instituted the crane dance
at Delos. . .

         And yet what does all this mean, except at
your touch, I was already shedding my skin; you were slipping

out of your dress of feathers, stepping out
of your skin of the crane,

no longer looking back, but trolling
for a face made of water . . .

                  and so I slipped out of my skin
of the doomed, I slipped out of the realm
of the man, I was suddenly devoid of stories, I was naked


as a girl dancing at no altar, bearing no weight, ahistorical
as a field of flowers, where every entrance

so predates language, all that I could say was human,
my body opening to your hand.

And yet, still I was being hunted.

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