Penelope
By Gay Greenleaf
On this once-festival day
twenty years ago,
the eager ships went forth,
cresting the purple sea,
—gulls wheeling and keening
in the fragrant air—
the winds were fair for Ilium.
Day by aching day I weave
the fabric of my life; in the silence
of the wine-dark night unravel
the boastful suitor's arrogance.
I stitch yet again the bright
moment of our first meeting,
—glittering in your bronze armour,
your helmet's plumes bristling
like a young stallion's mane—
the hot nights we mounted and rode,
breathless, into Thessaly,
as the gods laughed at our sport.
Even Menelaus has returned
with quarreling Helen,
—shrewish now, her seismic beauty,
that tore apart mens' hearts
leached ineluctably away—
all safely home, save only Ithaca's joy,
who lit proud Achilles' pyre
and sang the victor's song.
Twenty solitary years
under faded sheets,
love's odor still lingers.
Adamant the secret sea
keeps silence: whether bleached bones
on a forlorn beach are strewn,
lie cradled in Neptune's dark hold,
or lofted by cleansing flames soar
above Olympos' empyrean heights;
—better lost at sea the Argive king
who drowned in his own blood,
by his queen's usurping consort slain—
or whether you still linger captive
bound upon some alien shore.
The night's too long to sleep
on a cold bed loveshorn;
I'll threads unwork instead.
The restless stallions jog
urgently circling, nip
and jostle in ragged ranks;
the dust is rancid with desire.
None of these shall I mount astride,
—or ever ride
joyful into Thessaly.