Ariadne on Naxos.

       He showed no pity: on that shore he left
       The faithful girl.
       --Metamorphoses, viii.

Even before he slid out already standing,
His hairless legs more foal than calf--the human
Knees, splayed toes, father's flanks--I saw my brother
Reflected in the bullseye mirror, whip-scars
Streaking his shoulders, forehead fading below
His upright ears, face covered with mottled hanks
Of auburn hair, full, bow-shaped lips a joke,
Bulging teeth, tongue rolling uncontrollably.
The sight did not prepare me for the sound
Of him, though: savage bellows giving way
To an obscenity of vicious braying,
A copper wire scratching harp strings.
I saw what frustrated him, what drove
His rage, was that he'd never learn to speak,
That noise was both his fury's source and issue,
His appetites transformed to sound, and it
Provoked as much pity in me as violence
In him, hunger for human flesh just one
More way to express his hatred for himself--
And he was quiet only when he ate.
I swore he wouldn't live. It was a sort
Of love, I guess. Call that love, yes, and this
Unkindness, maybe, but not abandonment.
Some women might prefer a husband's debt,
But I choose stricter solitude, a zodiac
Of my own imaginings, new alphabet,
And even the dumbest stone on Naxos sings
What every vine produces. The greenest wine
Here satisfies. I'll take a skin to hike
The rocks and beaches, spill a bit for my partner
In drink, my closer twin. He's fond of me,
More brotherly than even the human parts
Of that animal. Of both of them, I mean.