Eurydice

He looked back
Before I could change
Thick iniquitous mist
Into a semblance of sunlight,
At least a thin gown
For dignity to cover
Where the naked eyes
Of the damned
Still scorched my skin.
 
His hero’s song
Assumed I would meet his pace,
As proper hero’s wives all should,
But which of those have been to hell?
Thus his seizing look
Unstitched my still uncertain form,
Ashamed as it was,
Unclean.

Penelope was the seamstress – not I.

When the gate locked again,

I walked the worn path
To my stiff bed above the rocks,
Surrendered Orpheus to the Maenads,
Waiting now on no man’s song.

Every day I swim the sea of souls,

Counting miles to match the earth,
Imagining Odysseus in female form,
Swimming her way home,
Beating waves into submission
Over the wine dark sea.

                                                                                                 October, 2011