Child in dark

In his lotus position, hooves on thighs,

leathery palms up to catch

an appreciation of all he cannot see —

he contemplates sunlight the way

a flower contemplates rain.

Closed up, folded within,

heart as detached as the granite,

his only companion. His howls

never reach the lightened air,

bounce back again and again.

The moment he cannot remember

yet will never forget —

when his mother handed him

across to Daedalus to hide away

in the endless cavern.

Sometimes he hears a voice,

or feels a gentle hand,

assumes he will go mad—

believes if he rends enough bodies

he will find his mother’s love.

The substantial child, hidden in the dark

so the populace will not see

a guise of the god, hunts for death —

the kiss to the cheek

his mother never bequeathed.