his cracked lips
into the sea. A cloud sinks.
The porpoise
cannot taste. And tonight the tide
runs low in the estuary
where she waits, where little fish
dry out on the banks. This
is a moon song, for when
the moon is gone: Odysseus
lighting the night with a candle,
Odysseus,
loving his boat as he loves the sea.
Consider
the continuous thread of desire
that binds a body
to a thing. In ancient times
hunger itself was the prayer,
emptiness reminding
the body of its death.
But some nights, when
the sea is full of fish,
under the dim and scattered
stars, Odysseus
could knot his rope
with the hair of dead men
and the tails of dead
beasts.
He could put the men
on his ship to sleep,
stuffing their loving
ears with wax, to keep
the sirens for himself, as
he lets them out
of their cages to bind
their beautiful bodies
to the mast. I imagine
Penelope
at home, weaving
or not, the light
in her room, growing dim.
Is this
what love is?
I imagine
the sirens on the ship
might grow cold. They
might touch, or try
and sing. To speak
directly of the beloved
is to burn. I shuffle
down the block through the snow.
It’s Christmas Day, but you
have packed your things, you
are gone.
