Penelope at Home

Each time you leave, an eternity sails by.

Our son bobs up, plump-legged, and plummets forwards,
rummaging in every bin of trash, the imp.

Suddenly running, so swiftly he gains Olympian legs,
each morning vaulting out of bed, hungry–always

hungry. So many meals to mark the frenzy of days.
And while he rises, I forget myself. My hair grays.

What must it be like to leave? To stand
amongst the unaging seas and remain?

And when you return, a salt-washed figurehead,
what to say? What to say when you ask,

“What have you done while I was away?”

Originally published in Birmingham Poetry Review.