Above her the morning grows,
the day to dim dusk, rays sag
to her clear hands, they curve
the light into rivets and spirals,
the curls of her almond hair spray
on her bent back. With neck bowed
so low, eyes coil into an intense prayer:
Poseidon, why did you allow your anger
to thwart Odysseus and his travels?
The winedark sea does not carry fire
but a mute meditation. Breathe deeper
into your salt-burned air.
With knees on granite sand,
silver moon streaks swing into
her body bent and rippled,
her damp lips rise and fall.