They Say Ithaca Isn't the Only Place Whe

THEY SAY ITHACA ISN'T THE ONLY PLACE WHERE HUSBANDS DON'T COME HOME

And still she murmurs like a good wife,

a good dog, sweet things as if the outside

and its wind of knives and fluorescence

never parted you. Somehow, you were

present enough to kiss our foreheads but

not look us in the eye. To hold our hands

but not to kindle them. Did you fear the land

that wanted to keep you, graceless under

the grass? Did you fear the people who were

always the shovel? Your son waits with his tongue

held between his teeth. He leaves to return,

carrying his manhood in his mouth. He doesn’t make

promises, keeps love where nobody can see it.

Come home alone and I will be more forgiving.

Come home and Ithaca will hang a melody

across the sky, ease the sirens away, our beds

warm. She will fill your name in her lungs instead

of air. Don’t give yourself to what keeps you away

from us, you and your spit of salt and mistakes

in your god’s palace. You don’t have to pray

for something to drown in when you are human.

We surrender to white foam and little bites

that eat away at our skin. The waves you have loved

pounce at my feet like animals and still I carve

a love note across the beach over and over

as the crystal flows violently to take the place

of my fingers. It laps it up, sunlight at its back,

and rolls over like a good dog. The dog used to winning

games, best at playing dead, belly up and floating.