While Homer Slept

by Christos Polydorou

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CHORUS OF PHILOSPHERS’ WIVES

We were ladies,
we married our husbands.
We put up with their nonsense,
on a daily basis.
If you take the whole of female suffering
with men and expressed it in fabric,
you could use it to bandage the earth’s bleeding.

What was wrong with our men?
They wanted it all.
They wanted a beautiful house,
strong sons,
and they wanted to be androgynous
men, in ornately designed
amphitheatres
in and out of the mind,
impersonating goddesses of the iron age.
We could have murdered our husbands,
so easily. They mostly fell to bed drunk,
completely helpless and susceptible.
We could have murdered our husbands
so easily, but of course we couldn’t do that
to our strong sons; it was not in our place,
to teach them, the hard way.

We gaze out of our windows sometimes.
Sometimes our gaze wanders into the timeless Aegean.
Sometimes we can sense pity for us,
but are proud ladies,
resilient.

Our husbands all call simultaneously for their dinner,
WIFE!
We sigh.
Collect our sighs and release them into the skies,
like doves.

 

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