The Weaver’s Tale
by Marie C Lecrivain
Now you have told the story of our bed
the secret no other mortal knows – The Odyssey (*)
Perhaps you knew, with every stone you laid,
post you carved, and strap you tied,
the waiting, for me – was inevitable.
In our bed, I steered through a score of lonely years,
while the tether between us held fast
to the olive tree I watered with my tears.
My bittersweet dreams sank into the soil,
mingled with roots that spread far and wide
like the rumors of your conquests and exploits.
I didn’t mind – for the most part – except for
when Dawn came through the window
to fill the empty space beside me.
Mornings spent in your strong arms,
my ear pressed against your chest,
soothed by steady beat of your heart,
replaced by dust motes and silence –
this was my true test; the possibility
of our golden mean unraveling,
strand by slow strand, while downstairs,
in the great hall, waited a press of suitors
with eager hands and rising ambitions
to lay claim to what’s not rightfully theirs.
This was always the moment I grasped
the ends of my resolve, wove them together,
and held onto hope for one more day.
(*The Odyssey, Book 23, The Olive Tree Bed, Homer, translated by Emily Wilson, © 2018)
Marie C Lecrivain is a poet, publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, and ordained priestess in the Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica, the ecclesiastical arm of Ordo Templi Orientis. Her work has been published in Nonbinary Review, Orbis, Pirene’s Fountain, and many other journals. She’s the author of several books of poetry and fiction, and recent editor of Gondal Heights: A Bronte Tribute Anthology (copyright 2019 Sybaritic Press, http://www.sybpress.com).