Penelope and Echo

The suitors keep insisting it is time                          I’m
to choose, but I refuse to turn into a lonely              only
echo, breathing only borrowed                                 owed
sound, surrounded solely by something                    one thing.
to mimic.

              By my fingers, this loom comes alive:       I’ve
each lilting, familiar stich raveled                            travelled
and unraveled each night, to slowly                         only
weave the hours–a tapestry going nowhere,             air:
except perhaps to inch towards                               words.
impertinence, a kind of quiet                                 Yet,
resistance. My triumph is failing                            ailing,
to complete anything. Why                                   I
do I keep weaving this history                               story
when in the dark each night I must                       us
undo it all again? Telling and                                 an
retelling might keep us unending.                         ending.

Originally published in Mezzo Cammin, this poem also appears in Mary’s collection Loom, which will be published by Finishing Line Press.

To read this and other poems in the original issue, click here.