The women are speaking
The women are crying out
The women are begging
The women are screaming
Penelope had a lovely idea and I wish there were more men who listened
The women should burn things
All of this waiting
All of these whispered words
All of this “he promised”
Must we always sit and weave the burial garments for the love that can not be placed under a shroud
It will burn in our chest whether we dig the hole or not
It will burn in our children even if we set the boats ablaze with us and the dead on board
When we are long dead and our grandchildren’s grandchildren breathe in the hot breeze that once blew through our hair it will wake, yet again
I weave the shroud and embroider the shadow of this love drenched rage and I hope the day comes soon where my sons lock the doors and burn those leaning heavy on the laws of gods that mirror the worst in every father
You could have come home any time, if only you’d learn the lesson the women were force fed from birth
Put down your sword and feed the beggar
Teach your sons to write songs
Let your daughters choose which ones deserve singing
But sure, go be a hero shaped fool
Maybe in exile I can teach you to protect love with more of it
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