Odyssey, part 3 (Penelope)

Penelope

Cured myself of that sickness, memory. A different song each evening. A man strong and kind, the man I would happily have married had war not taken him away. Or, perhaps we do wed; a few brief months together. A loom on which to weave a day. Unweave it. Start anew. When I say he isn’t dead, I mean he never did exist. Unplait every strand. Knit a yard of fiction. Fabricate my story. Unpiece desire. I did not marry. I married no man.

torn

words

broken

moon

cut

from

the

same