by Janet Hanna

I sang the eternal song of desire
And made him rich with my gift.
I sweetened his days with crumbcakes and wine.
At night, I made him forget
His barren, rock-strewn Ithaca.
Who breaks the Jungian code of silence is punished.
My head is shaved,
My man torn from me,
My mantle, which you willed me, shredded and cursed.
I pay for your maleness, Zeus, with my womb.

Well, I spit on your orders, old, hen-pecked god,
For I shall rise, like the Phoenix,
On the ashes of my woman’s shame.
And we both know you’ll turn back for me,
When the wine has soured,
And the wolves are howling at your impotent heels.