I saved my life by a thread (with apologies to Ariadne)

©Cameron Altaras

It wasn’t a thick, scratchy, heavy-duty hemp rope

She handed me

Not the kind we used to

Hang the swing from the Elm tree

For the kids

Nor did She give me any of the bungee cords

Hooked into the metal rings around the

Edge of the mammoth brown tarp

Stretched securely over the patio furniture to

Protect it from winter

She didn’t even have the courtesy to hand me

Some of the wool from my knitting bag left over

From the warm scarf for my husband or the

Bright pink pussyhats we wore in solidarity with those

Whose rights were under attack

All She handed me was

Thin black polyester cotton thread, the kind

Found in anybody’s sewing basket, the kind

That gets harder to poke through the needle as

Clarity slips from middle-aged eyes, the kind even

Approved of by Amish Bishops

Nothing worldly or revolutionary about

Black thread.

I stand here completely

Dumbfounded and slightly resentful, having

Made it through that confounded maze, the least

She could have done was

Chosen sunny yellow or brilliant turquoise, any color

I could have seen or to

Lift my spirits, perhaps shimmery silver, glistening gold, or

Better yet, elastic, something with a

Bit of give would have

Eased my nerves every time I narrowly

Circumnavigated sharp corners or

Squeezed through cracks never

Meant for someone my size, many times

I had to stop, backtrack,

Lower myself to my knees before

Taking another step

Find the dropped end and

Knot it to the frayed end of

Black thread in my hand.

I still feel the places rubbed raw

Healed, now scarred, places where that

Sharp black thread She gave me

See-sawed ruts across my hands

Gripping mostly, sometimes looser, directly in

Proportion to the height of my anxiety

Rekindling fears of everlasting hell-fire’s condemnation, the

First time I refused to

Sacrifice the best of what I had and

Bow before the monster in the middle of

My chosen path, my decision to

Cut a new path, turning

Treacherously, turning

Dangerously, turning

Slightly so at first the unconventionality of

That move went unnoticed, not even

Challenged until I sharply veered towards the other side and

Smashed through bricks and

Blasted rusty padlocked platitudes in that maze of patriarchal privilege

Concealing traps for those like me who would

Dare shine piercing light through that maze of darkness or

Demand an end to its blatant toleration of abuses and

Carve a passage through that unforgiving maze of dogma to a life

Enfolded in the safety of my own expanding person

Growing massively beyond that ancestral weakened

Image of my Self

Attending now to wisdom’s voice within while

Firmly striding upright, ever onward in my own direction to

Ensure that anyone who cares to

Learn by reading of the journey through the maze now

Writ large upon my palm by imprints of that

Thin black thread She gave me, that

Thread I used to save my life.