I think I broke Ulysses--
the image of that strong-backed man,
his silver spoon displaced, his wedding ring askew.

He's got those aquamarine eyes,
got himself a dumb pretty mouth that says
dumb pretty things. He'd go crazy for me,
he'd rob a bank for me, he'd become a vegetarian.

I don't mind his idiocy.
We're all illiterate when we're in love.

I can pacify his intensity with "I know, sweetie,
yeah, I know," but it's too late to condescend;
he's mad again, pissed about where the hell did you go
and how dare he and I'm gonna kill the sonuva and
all those other sweet self-destructive things.

Rewrite every happily ended story,
'cause I've had my way with mythology.

(In an onstage aside from inside
my bedroom window, a stage hand says
it's sad for a heat-seeking missile of a girl
when not even the oldest of heroes
have what it takes.)

I know it's bad when all I have to do is ask,
"Forgive me?" And he never goes home,
never goes away, turned me into the only one
who could make him stay.