THE MINOTAUR Poem by Goenawan Mohamad

in a Picasso sketch
Into the bed the Minotaur comes, sniffing
your body, your body hair,

that glows in heat,
and gives off

the aroma of aniseed.

Your face is ripe
like a grain of wheat

in the final field.

And the growl that makes the curtain shiver
lures you: you sway your breasts
towards the eerie and acid smells,

when desire sticks out its tongue,
its red tongue,

onto lust
that moistens.

And then, awakens. And Death

sits in the arena where the bull
scuffs his feet

and seconds seem to pour like rust from the sun,
in the plaza where fate pulls the trigger
in the waning light of Saturday evening.

Soon the room becomes bright.
And the Minotaur vanishes from the bed.

The hour seeps into the ground.

Only Death slips
from the thrill
passing

though your navel
your loins—
the imperishables.