by: Cynthia Hogue
There was an ancient well-site beneath the labyrinth
I did not reach, the part underground,
labeled (what else?) The Crypt.
But labels always hide something
about what they seem to define.
They set the thing apart
without disclosing why.
Alive costs a pretty penny
to see The Crypt now.
_________________________
Today, I've been thinking a lot about labels for some reason. I try not to place myself in boxes. When someone asks me what I do, I usually reply with something like, "Well, I'm a husband and father and poet and teacher." I may, on occasion, leave out some of those descriptors, add others. If I'm at a meeting at the hospital, I'll say, "My job is health information clerk," which doesn't really cover half the shit I do.
People want to label you. It's a way of understanding and controlling an interpersonal relationship with another human being. Always, labels fall short because they limit. I don't like being limited.
Even being a saint can have its limitations. Doesn't have a great pension. No health insurance. Lots of on-the-job hazards--martyrdom, leprosy, and long hours.
Saint Marty's current label reads, "Wash warm, tumble dry."
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