From Penelope, to Odysseus lost at sea; a poem

The olives are ready for harvest.

Hard and salty like little boys’ fingers.

Gnarled trees with white arms

standing like sentinels. Night comes and

I dream of citadels and plunder.

Waves stain the windows with

their morning breath. Creep into my bed

like lusting gods;

Nothing here is completely dry anymore.

The suitors around the fire eat our lambs and

the fat drips down their cheeks. They

drink our wine and the vomit flows from

their mouths.

Both of these things help the fire burn.

Sometimes, when they catch

me watching, they laugh and

tell me you are dead.

Here is the truth.

I wish you were dead.

Two days ago, I shattered

an amphora. Wine, ruby-red,

licked and buried itself

into the white marble.

It shocked me. I could’ve

sworn that daggers had

flown through my heart.

The wine looked so like blood.

I pretended I was cleaning

your blood from the floor.

The night is blacker here.

I cannot remember if it has

always been so black.

Perhaps your blood has

sunk into the sky like

bones into wet dirt. Or

the waves have dampened the clouds

like a drunkard will spoil his

own chiton.

Either way, the product remains.

Things are blacker where

the soul dips into ink.