To Penelope

Tiresias told him to, but I think
He did it for himself. Ten years
Of warring before the walls, of soul-searching
Along an endless shore where rolling blankets
Sooth and stroke the sand. Ten years
Of wandering on an inner sea,
Of plunging and popping up like
Cork or driftwood driven underwater.
Twenty years of Dawn’s rose-red fingers
Never pointing to a home on the horizon—
But once—and he was not ready then.
- - I think he knew, he knew. Something
Missing in his soul—oh Penelope,
Poor Penelope—
Your mother-in-law understood her son better than you.
He strove and sought a passion fit for wanderers
And will never know peace until
He knows peace. Those conquests
Were but conquests, and so were you, dear,
Dear Penelope, so devoted
To your weaving.
Take solace in the love you share,
Rooted in both your hearts like that great bed,
Carved from a tree of sanctity, cornerstone for your home
And building block for others.
Conquest and love? Why not?
Even the greatest warrior must
Rest—that is love.
But just as we find sanctuary,
So, too, do we escape.
- - Because there’s something out there, he knew,
Something waiting, always lingering
Beyond the sea. The Blind
Seer told him of that land, of the people
Who have never known the taste of salt
Or the cries of gulls to sound the deep, of
A final labor of an oar
To dip and stir up forgotten things—
But he knew, he knew. He needed,
He felt, he languished.
- - “There’s something out there, something
So removed that it resides
Somewhere far within, that we
As mortals might set our souls to
Sailing on a midnight sea in search
Of segments of ourselves that were
Shed and long forgotten as we groped
About the rocks in blindness
For the light of day”—that is what
He said to me
As we stood upon the shore
And saw the sun slip into the west.
Setting sail, I think he said a final thing—
Little more than a whisper on the wind—
That I could scarce believe but
I hope would make you glad:
“Oh, my country,
Oh, my house,
Oh, my wife—
Alas,
This is peace.”
- - And kneeling there, I watched in starlight
As the gentle maw of sea and night
Embraced him in eternity. But now
His throne is far too young,
Your rooted bed is much too cold,
And you go walking
To the waves.