If I would marry him, 
he promised,
he’d take me to Knossos, 
where steamy Queen Phaedra 
was said to have dwelt. 
Her child, fathered 
by a bull, behaved so badly
a maze was built
to keep him in.   

From this labyrinth,
adolescent Icarus
flew and at first 
he had such fun
that his waxen 
wings were undone
by the pitiless sun
and we all,
thanks to Breughel
the Belgian, saw him fall
into the ocean
just as my Mother saw
me place in my confusion
a tarpaulin 
over my wedding 
gown, so confused and uncool
a bride was I.
We split up soon,
the groom and I.

Meanwhile in Knossos,
palace acrobats performed.
Hippolytus the hero
proved too virtuous
for his own good
(according to Racine)
 refusing the advances
of the Queen.

As for me, I never
went to Knossos
and won’t.  I’m
over eighy-five.

No more will I see 
Macchu Pichu or any 
wonder
of Peru.

Rather, I embrace my fate, 
namely, to contain myself,
(as one with scoliosis
and transient strokes)
within the bounds
of Western Massachusetts.