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Posts Tagged ‘odyssey’

The Night Before the Big Decision

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on August 19, 2026| Leave a Comment »


 
 
There is the moment when the woman 
is deciding what to make for dinner—
a tofu curry with beet greens from the garden?
Or maybe guacamole with all those avocados
she bought on sale. When she reaches 
for the greens, that’s the kind of moment
when a Greek goddess doesn’t appear beside her
and shake her head as if everything depends
on the woman choosing the guac. 
Something wonderful about a choice 
with so little consequence. Red socks or blue? 
The low green vase or the clear vase from Finland?
The woman has read about the butterfly effect,
trusts a life—in fact all of civilization—is built 
on every smallest choice and inaction.
But tonight there is peace in the way she presses
water from the tofu, then slides the white cubes
into the pan. Six seven, as the kids would say.
The scent of turmeric fills the room. 
If a goddess were to show up, she’d probably
just ask for a glass of sauv blanc and join
the woman for a bowl of curry. They would 
sit at the kitchen table for hours, laughing
as the cats chase each other across the room,
talking about the three-hour movie they just saw.
Tomorrow, the choice. But tonight,
the goddess nods at the sunflowers on the table.
“I like your low green vase,” she says.  

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The Remembering

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on January 2, 2025| 4 Comments »


 
 
And if I should sit at the table with Helen of Troy,
let me not sip from the drink she offers,
the nepenthe that would make me forget sorrow.
If I know anything now, it is that sorrow
helps us grow. Not that I want sorrow,
no, but neither do I want to forget my boy,
and his story is knit with sorrow.
I choose sorrow so I might continue to love.
Imagine not saying his name when I walk
alone beneath stars. Imagine not weeping
when I think of how he held me.
Imagine not laughing when I think of how
we played. Imagine not smiling
when I hear myself saying words he would say.
Imagine not learning how tenuous it is,
this thread that ties us to life;
how lovely and strong it is, this thread
that ties us to each other, even after death.
Let me not take Helen’s cup. Let the beauty
be not in forgetting our cares, but in sharing them—
connection, the most potent drug of all.
In this epic, perhaps she will offer to listen to me.
And I, I will listen to her.

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