In the Words of Penelope, a Poem for all Women

There are days I love you, and 
remember the feeling—though
                    how fleeting it seems now when
                   the words of men and the women
                                                        bending to them pour down
                                                       like rain in a torrent in the heart of a 
                                                                                                   hurricane. 

Recall every moment I have loved you 
from the time our daughter opened her
eyes, and the music played on the TV
with horses galloping. You helped me 
deliver her; our second
beautiful child, who came 
in the time we decided, and 
away from the darkest of caves 

ready to reveal what we fear lays
in the chasm where wanderers fall 
and their echoes fade. These give
way to legends of monsters who
take centuries to digest who they eat. 

Now you fear if I speak 
out loud, they will come for us
in this new world that some 
will make in the ways of F-5 
tornadoes, hurricanes, and 
the abyss of caves. I must consider all family
around me, and I remember—although
I wasn’t there—1930’s Germany.

You wonder why I risk and wish to speak.
I must be careful and never seek
that which will bring us to an end
where we would 
too soon meet our daughter
again.  We lost her before this world came
about, and the fire is starting. 
Some say there’s no way out. 

I have loved you in the colors of the 
brightest gold in autumn leaves 
you could behold. My heart beats 
with the red of the dogwood 
against a November sun, 
but the leaves—now at their brightest—
will soon cascade to the earth 
and forever fade. 

I am calm as we reach the 
darkest part of the cave.
You wonder why I do not speak. 
I will not respond because I know
my voice—which feels every bit of 
the heartbreak in which some will
celebrate—becomes nothing more 
as when Odysseus shoots his arrow
into the throat of man who invaded
his home. You say now, “Thirty years ago, 
I would have taken your laptop and 
thrown it against the wall.” 
I say to you in the words of 
Penelope, “Do not rage at me.” 

We have walked through the storms 
when buried our child, and you 
battled cancer.  We always wanted
some answer.  Yet, we always 
found some sort of light.  Although I am strong
because I have been through worse,
my grief is for every woman on earth.

I cannot sit quiet. 
I am not made to abide. 
I am my grandmother’s granddaughter, and
our daughter’s mother. Did you know what she
voiced at school about what one man did
when children were separated from 
their families at the border? In the eyes
of our child, age five, she did recognize, and
said in front of her class how wrong it was
for this man to divide children from families. 

So, if I sit for some time, and cannot 
magically let my emotions go, this,
my dear, is why. The time has come
for this Southern belle to shed any 
such name, and forget the teachings 
that “one should discuss politics 
or complex things because it is 
impolite” until it takes someone’s life. 
But I have chosen to express—from this 
moment—words of light, so no one will
ever feel that they are wanderers falling
into the cave’s abyss or that an arrow
is shot through their throat. May they know the 
light of a dogwood’s leaves in November
sun, and may it last and never shun. 
May they feel the moment when 
horses gallop on a beach and 
music plays remind us to simply breathe.