Penelope in the Morning, Many Years Later

When Odysseus opens his eyes she has been awake
for some time, stale devotion aging beneath her tongue
like a bad wine. Sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing
her hair, back unyielding, Penelope watches Odysseus
in the mirror. Feels his gaze on her hips with memories
of the witch-woman lingering in his eyes, recognizes
the shape Ithaca's coastline along his shoulders. When
she decides to get dressed she'll face the curve of his bow
hanging behind suits. Odysseus wanted it above the mantle
but she wished it broken, and thinks their marriage counselor
will see this compromise as progress. Odysseus rises
and moves to the bathroom, naked and proud, but she 
does not watch. In her head Penelope hears the noises he makes
near waking, caught between sudden echoes of seasickness
and still-reaching fingers of dead comrades. On those mornings
she lies quietly, tracing lines in the headboard made of wood lighter
than that of the olive tree. Hating their reputation. Without
notice she rises to start her morning, stepping over the unfinished
marriage shroud discarded at the foot of their bed. 


​~Jen Weber