Author’s Note: Everyone wants to be the hero. But a story might be an epic from one character’s perspective and a tragedy from another’s. This poem plays with the tropes of Homer, recasting roles across gender and time and asking whether, in the end, the adventure is worth the wake.
Rethinking the Odyssey
Because I set out as swift-footed, as breaker
xxxxxxxxxxxxof horses, thinking myself a chosen, the dawn
XXXXXon her hood—I of many devices, sword on my back
like the wind; because I kicked down the door
xxxxxxxxxxxxto your bolted life, ran after the tips of your hair
as you bolted, knowing who else but I could
XXXXXmake you love yourself, even love me—
xxxxxxxxxxxxnow, shuffling homeward my canvas slip-ons
like a weathered sail, I am many-sorrowed,
XXXXXmy face in the mirror bearing a new line
for every face of yours: wide-eyed & pale,
xxxxxxxxxxxxor flush with tears, or numb like late November.
Beloved, I stole you away from home, wagered
XXXXXyour heart, waged a war to remake you, made you
raise your voice, your fist, to the bricks of
xxxxxxxxxxxxyour house. In the palms of my hands I made
XXXXXyour fingers soft, your knuckles hard, like mine.
How Penelope could have spent those two decades
xxxxxxxxxxxxif she’d never met him—a new cloth finished
each month, each with its own new scene;
XXXXXa house to call her own, its stockrooms full—&; how
xxxxxxxxxxxxCalypso or Circe would never have poured one
final cup, the wine so dark & dry she must have
XXXXXthought it her own blood as he turned it up,
a waning moon on the sea saying I am turning
xxxxxxxxxxxxmy back on you, it will only get darker. Beloved,
I paste a purple band aid here on a shallow cut
XXXXXon the back of your hand, hold it in mine, can’t
meet your eyes for fear of how fierce they
xxxxxxxxxxxxlove me. I have ruined this story. Take what’s left,
the commas & semicolons, the verbs & go—
I will stay with the weight of nouns, the full stops.
xxxxxxxxxxxxI will stay with the fleet falling at dawn, wrapped in
your fleece, dew cold. The landscape beckons me in
XXXXXremembrance: your dark wine, your rosy fingers.
T. Dallas Saylor (he/they) holds a PhD from Florida State University and an MFA from the University of Houston. His work meditates on the body, especially gender and sexuality, against physical, spiritual, and digital landscapes. His poetry has been featured in Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Colorado Review, Christianity & Literature, PRISM international, and the Delmarva Review. Saylor’s first book, Starfish, is forthcoming from Glass Lyre Press in 2025. He lives in Denver, Colorado.
The Delmarva Review is a literary journal published in St. Michaels, Maryland, that reaches regionally, nationally, and beyond, to give writers a desirable home in print (with a digital edition) to present their most compelling new prose and poetry to discerning audiences. This is a time when many commercial print publications have closed their doors or are reducing literary content. For each annual edition, the editors have culled through thousands of submissions to select the best of new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. There is never a publishing or reading fee for the writers. The review is available from online booksellers and regional specialty bookstores. As a 501(c)(3) nonprofit, support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org
Image: “Marooned” by Howard Pyle
Write a Letter to the Editor on this Article
We encourage readers to offer their point of view on this article by submitting the following form. Editing is sometimes necessary and is done at the discretion of the editorial staff.