Circe’s Grief

In the end, I made myself

Known to your wife as

A god would, in her own house, in

Ithaca, a voice

Without a body: she

Paused in her weaving, her head turning

First to the right, then left

Though it was hopeless of course

To trace that sound to any

Objective source: I doubt

She will return to her loom

With what she knows now. When

You see her again, tell her

This is how a god says goodbye:

If I am in her head forever

I am in your life forever.