Odysseus’s Lament

They call you a sorceress,

a witch bedeviling men.

I know better, know how soft

a yielding goddess can be.

I’m happy here at home,

with my beloved Penelope,

but in the deep of night, when stars

twinkle through a velvet sky

and at dusk, when light becomes golden

in the fading sunset, and again at dawn

when light comes back, Helios’s chariot rising, riding rosy fingers into the heavens,

my thoughts return to your island,

your silken voice singing in your garden,

a breeze lifting your hair, dancing through it like a palace.

What I wouldn’t give for one more fire in your hearth,

burnished flames of copper and crimson

licking logs of laurel, shadows waltzing across the walls,

the glow of your crystals in the firelight.

Breathing deeply in the forest fills my lungs with your essence,

daughter of the sun, enchantress of my heart,

I remember the rich cedar of your hair,

the breath of cypress between your knees.

That first night in your chamber, after the bath of helichrysum and pine,

the silks and linens of your bed, the silk of your skin,

the curve of your waist and delicate danger

of your touch thrilling

my senses, divine pleasure breathing

into me from you. You read me in Braille

and the oral tradition,

fingertips and lips mapping my scars—I found my body

in your gifted hands that feel like the rain smells.

the rich tapestry of your eternal life weaving me in, entwining my rough fibers into the gauzy breeze of you.

Here, in my rightful place, the sea echoes your name, whispers your blood beating in my heart.

Brew another potion, enchantress divine,

bring me back into the temple that is you,

let me worship again.