Leaving Circe's Island

LEAVING CIRCE’S ISLAND

“you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean” — C.P. Cavafy. 

When you return home

to a moist puff of dog breath

as you walk through the door 

because the AC coils are frozen

over and water is seeping beneath

the unit and the laminate floor

of the basement, you remember

that what you’ve so carefully crafted

to hold the pearl of great price

is fragile as the crushed oyster

shells you scatter to the chickens. 

As you pack your bags with a dose

of humility to crash at the in-laws

until they can “get a guy over there,”

which, by the tone of his voice 

is not, to them, a matter of consequence

deserving a sense of urgency, you remember

to pack a carton of cherry tomatoes

from your garden as a kind of thank you

for the inconvenience, only to recall 

from their nibbled, shriveled skins 

that these are far from what you 

envisioned as the treasure of the field

you seeded in Spring. As you throw them 

away with a huff and hit the road,

engine light on and mailbox number

dangling like the dog's tongue

out the window, rejoice, sweaty sojourner.

It was a near miss, but you're

on the way again.