across the wine-dark sea

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across the wine-dark sea

The final leg, Odysseus: 
go plant 
your oar in sea-forgotten soil, and when 
the wheat goes rippling through the fields like distant 
memories of her, turn one last time 
toward rocky Ithaca. 
    Penelope 
will meet you at the gate, white flower dusted 
across her sea-green robe like ocean spray, 
and smelling of yeast and hearth-smoke she will kiss 
your stubbled cheek to tell you that you’re late 
for dinner,

   just like Circe would. 
       
Outside, 
a siren song of sea-breeze sings you back
across the wine-dark sea, and you are left
to cope without a mast or rope in sight.

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