Rolling in the Deep

I want to drown in the abyss of your obsidian heart
to be stripped of my skin and all reason, only embers
of my soul will flare up like a star, then caress your
black hole siphon of madness, I will be your spirit balm
when we slip inside each other we melt like black butter
you waterfall through me, I dissolve like salt in springs
death with you is gentle, and when the world is too much
I wrap your depths around me like a shawl to keep hidden
first my epidermis goes, then my organs, last weary bones
all that is left is a ghost of a girl, then we can waltz out
into oblivion, and I can valse in your open blank expanse
destruction is my answer when the world overwhelms anxiety
so I call upon my father, lover, and son to remake a body
too young to bear fruit, too old to blossom, but just right
to awaken poisoned in bed and drunk off dark matter, comatose –
you dress me in red gowns and rub rouge on my bitter cheeks
smile like a shark and say yes, you are worthy of my venom.

Penelope

Where are you, my fair-locked husband, on some far shore
in the arms of Calypso as I spin a shawl of faithfulness
you stray on your wanderings with Lily Eaters and Cyclops
I have a thousand suitors at my beck and call, you see?
Waiting on a wanderer is rarely worth the steel gray hairs
and as I take the distaff and part the threads to ashes
I’ve been weaving pictures of you the whole time, you know?
I can’t bear to be parted from you and in dreams we embrace
in my mind’s eye I can still see your swan face, your wit,
your warrior glint and wily touch, but you are with Circe
in the arms of an enchantress now, and I am left lonely,
empty bed where I sleep with an altar to Virgin Goddesses
Athena may be watching over you but the Furies watch me
they are punishing me with silky dreams of your lips
and Mnemosyne is in a bottle by my bedside, wine solace,
I drink to forget you, I drink to remember you, husband –
husband of an old woman now that faded as you evaded
her calling for you to come home, my plea falls on
ears deaf in a windswept sea, and our love is a tree
that will someday in my fever dreams shake with vigor
but the truth is there is no happy ending when your love
is taken by the succubus and La Belle Dame Sans Merci
those of us who are humble and plain tend hearthfires,
we have no magic about us, just simple song and wishes
so here is my prayer, O Gods, please – bring him back.