Beyond the Shores

by Diane Redleaf

Sidelined at the back table
to hold her place,
await her Aegean tales,
this Odysseus in a skirt, carrying a purse.
Her conquests matter,
more than the morning light in the hall,
the graying curls on my husband’s brow,
the smell of our breakfast brew,
my thousand thoughts on an empty morn.

It’s different—not worse—
than when I too had
her bustle, hustle, and swag.
When I had Troy to avenge.

I have my own sirens now,
No hearth awaits.
There is no Ithaca.
My ship holds water in its hull.