COMING HOME

Wind-soaked and salt rubbed,

I open my door with two hands (left

for yesterday, right for tomorrow),

let my stormy self loose, pulling

in two directions with only a pen

as rudder, sail, and figure head;

anchor lost somewhere among the tents

by the gates of Troy.

Seeing I am no crafty Odysseus,

my bed might have shifted during

unexpected turbulence; knowing well 

that I—although hardened like a drop

of amber in need of polishing—

am no Odysseus arriving home after

the long Trojan War. 

My battles were fought differently. No 

word, rooted or uprooted, can fix that pain.

I met him once, the great Odysseus

in a harbor far away and asked the tricky

old hero my question: If the Ark is buried

in the Garden, how do I find the way?

He lifted my shirt, drew a map

between my breasts and on the smooth skin

of my belly, which he kissed twice, muttering 

something in old Greek about a tree, the juicy 

pomegranate with bitter crunchy black pits 

getting stuck in his aging teeth making his gums 

bleed, his breath stink. Like a false 

compass intent on getting me lost. 

So I left him alone on the beach

no paradise in sight.

PUBLISHED IN THE ATLANTA REVIEW, SPRING/SUMMER 2022