Penelope

I may have been
put aside, but I’m not
alone. I have suitors
knocking at my door,
leaning in my window,
telling me their tall tales,
and sometimes I accept
their gifts. every day I weave
my never ending funeral shroud
of strange dreams and
shattered sunlight,
and every night I
unweave it, dissolving
myself slowly back
into lazy curls of smoke,
held together with poetry
and longing. if the wily Odysseus
decides one day
to return, he’d better be ready
to take a number.