A Phaeacia of My Own
A poem
Autumn is a Phaeacia of my own,
an in-between of wandering and home,
a crossroads of who I am and became,
somewhere between anonymity and fame.
Odysseus washed ashore on Phaeacia’s isle
a mess, a sodden agéd frightening pile
of a man, but nevertheless a guest.
They clothed and fed him and didn’t press
for a name. As was his cautious way he
told a tale about sailing on the sea
as a merchant. But when stories of Troy
were sung, and his grand heroic ploy
of the wooden horse, like a bride he wept
whose husband was murdered while she was kept
as a slave: so Odysseus’ sobbing
revealed him. But they knew there was something
odd about the old man, when at a youth’s taunt
he replied that he could take them all on!
Caught between being nameless and a big deal,
Odysseus cracked. It’s a wound that can’t heal.
I crack in autumn, the in-between of full
flower and abundance, and winter’s dull
mortality. I…
