ODE FOR ODYSSEUS

Returning from work
eleven-thirty at night
I find you sleeping on the sofa as usual,
the television glowing silently,
toys scattered,
a mayonnaise jar scratched almost clean,
the chewed remainder of a hotdog,
sticky plates and cups on the table.
The handle of a frying pan juts out of the sink
like the prow of a sunken ship.

The sound of the door awakens you,
you smile at me in your sleep,
a pinched smile on dry lips.
In the first weeks
the nausea is worse at night.
You don’t touch food,
or cook, which
makes you sick.

I toss my bag aside,
turn on the radio,
tear a pita off the counter,
stuff it with leftover salami,
cram it into my mouth,
drink juice
and begin
to straighten up.

The slosh of water in the dishwasher,
the washing machine’s wring cycle,
zippers knocking in the dryer –
the joy of machines
is heard at home.
Everything works.

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