Penelope

 

When you came into Ithaca

I loaded my gun.

 

A star fell in a trickle

through a cloudless night. I stumbled

 

over the fear that the fall had no end,

and that was all…but for the gun.

 

A fist-full of light held in a clench

of nickel, brass and the like—

 

I wondered if it be kin to star-fall,

if it bore, in birth, a sigh or a scream,

 

if the distances wore away its voice

until silence alone marked your return.

 

The years tumbled down my iron cheeks,

and I danced for my suitors till dawn.