Tell me about Penelope
The strings of my lyre I gently pluck.
To the moon I sing my saddest ballad
and pray it brings me news, with any luck,
of a queen alone across the canal.
“Please tell me if, my love, it hurts tonight
or if she is dancing without me?
But either way I’ll weep; I’ll write a line,
another mirage short-falling from her sea”.
I’ll be damned if she, for me, lights the pyre
and in saddest ritual burns her hands trying.
No word I’ve ever spoken, or ink I’ve put to paper
was ever worth a tear from bluest ocean’s labor.
I’ll slay gods and swim across the Aegean
If I get to kiss your hands to health, protean.
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