Frail binding cracks, leaving glue’s
dust on my fingers, the book
falls open, to the underscore
on Ulysses,
but, I paint Penelope,
not scarred by the scrags of war
but long years of separation
from Ulysses.
How does my great-grandfather
fare drawn in by the Gods of War
and the journey of Agamemnon
and Ulysses?
With brush I paint fair Penelope,
cloth draped over hands,
linen streaming, dripping over
like blood,
she holds her hands out as
she awaits the return
of her warrior husband,
Ulysses.
Does my great-grandfather dream
of the ancient glory of Troy
as Ulysses and Agamemnon
battle aside Achilles?
The Gods of War dragged them from
their beds. My great-grandfather
read of Ulysses in an old
volume of Tennyson
now lying on my mother’s shelf.
I paint the wives, Penelope
and Clytemnestra, waiting
for the Gods of War
to return their husbands, one
to the bed of Penelope,
one to the waiting knife
of Clytemnestra,
avenging the sacrifice to the Gods of War
and the deaths of daughters. I am the
daughter, of the daughter, of the daughter
of a man who read Tennyson.