I will not write the Penelope poem. I will not write of weaving, of wifehood, of the boredom that comes when your job is just to sit waiting to be desired in the right way. The moon, yes, is slung past the mountains in a curve, night making me a cloak of moths if I stand under the light too long. Each inch of my back has wings. Who is to say I am not the God’s one? Who is to say I am not become a flame? That with these wings I might leap, light up each tree, turn the ridged pines to candles flickering. I offer up nothing. I keep my name and this fire I bring just to burn.