Barely older than you will always be,
I vowed to honor her till death.
Should I have known, those months

we swelled with hope, that Atropos
was set to cut a life, even as her sister
spun you yours? My son,

I let the wet-nurse be your family,
ground my teeth each time your cry
caught me inking out the fates

of hundreds in the web of my design.
Now the candle drips as I retrace
my steps. Like memory, it must

consume itself before it can go dark.
For thirty years your falling cry
has thread its accusation deeper:

There is no killer but your father.
Icarus, mercy. At last, tonight,
navigate escape for me.