Despite His Love
by Neal Ostman


For I tell thee there is nought else worse than the sea
to confound a man, how hardy soever he may be.
-The Odyssey, Book VIII


My wily friend, Odysseus
come read these winds.
Tell me how you recalled her scents
after suns and drenching salt laced seas,
brittled Ithaca’s memories?

Amid bottle-green waves
lost in their rhythmic rise and fall,
it is all of her I struggle to recall.
Those miles and the days beyond,
the belly once gently lain upon.

Did you more than once pretend,
your swollen hands upon the rail,
cupped in that curve, her shoulders pale?
I sense the heft in aging hope,
the smallness of a boat.

How drizzle thimbles upon the sea
dear God--
like tears






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