My mother once said that the women went mad
from the sound of the wind on the rocks. She warned me:
never wait for that scream at the door. But still I lie

awake in the dark, imagining each howl a silhouette
on my stoop, a stranger’s step, your hand a-sail
up my leg. The leaves all whisper Penelope, please,

pray me home tonight. Lift your eyes unto the ceiling,
crack it off like the lid of a tomb. Jesus, my husband,
how long you’ve been gone. You say you’ve seen men

grow soft into swine. Well I too have been a bare fist
against the night, asleep under tables for fear of the roar,
the crash over my head, spreading thick as the drowned

meat of a nut. I swear I would steer you by the stars,
that sieve of silver fish. But you have drunk salt in days
of plenty. You have lost the taste of my name.