When Persephone ate the Pomegranate 
 

No doubt she washed the dish.

It’s what women do when lost—

find something to clean,

to put in order, something

to hold and rock,

as we were rocked by our mothers

in their own sorrows. 

He wouldn’t notice a clean dish,

only that she’d eaten—

a contract signed by ignorance.

It’s a thing men know:

that food, a roof, a bed,

the semblance of love,

is the price of a wife. 

Who would have thought

that six ruby seeds could taste

so bitter? Sit so heavy?

The wintery accusation—

the stain of stale lust

on cold sheets—

just cold enough to freeze

an entire world.

Penelope Gives Instructions on Weaving and Men 
 

First you shear the sheep. 

You’ll need lots of wool, so that men

can’t follow what you are doing.   

Always  spin your own thread,

go slow. Even the Fatae,

Night’s own weird daughters,

work for years

to get to the shroud. 

Set your dyes to match

the living room, not

the bedroom.  Take time off  

on Thursdays or Saturdays,

make your suitors move

furniture: shift a sofa,

hang a picture, haul away a bed. 

When you warp the loom, be

certain of the tension. Keep them

at each other’s throats

for as long as you can. 

In the weaving, strive

for perfection.  Unravel and redo

as much as you can.  

And when your errant husband returns,

chases the others away, asks you

to come to bed, go ahead and tell him:  

Yes, dear, as soon as

I finish this bit of weaving.