Our feat of imagination

Is that an antelope in a costume? My son picks up a picture of Whitman,

with a wired beard, scrunches his brow then emphasizes: a lot.

I add, conspiratorially, it is. He scrutinizes my expression

for a missing smile. He’s also, I add, any various number

of birds, a zebra, an ostrich, even a tree and a rock,

all under the shadow of that great big multitudinous hat.

He smiles: you’re crazier than me, Dada. I add, we’re equal crazy;

you want me to read you one of his poems? He walks away.

You pause at the edge of the darkened bedroom when I return from surgery,

wide eyed at my stubbles, and inability to turn to fully see you.

Is that a scarf around your neck? To cover the staples and tubes, yeah.

The costume is complete when I pick up Percy Jackson for our bedtime

reading, which says: we’re normal as four nights ago. We’re not, though

imagining so heals us. You climb on the bed. We find a safe way to hug.

Unwoven loom

No one asked where the fuck have you been

when Odysseus washed up ten years

late

from the Trojan war.

Penelope’s mind surely wasn’t consumed

by Laestrygonians, couldn’t be

lulled

by Siren song.

She too loomed fiction with holes, her weapon

paused time, the shroud

unwove

suitors’ action.

No one heard her silent threaded

story that wove a web

across

the infidelities of time.