There are the ones who leave and the ones who stay,
the ones who go to war and the ones
who wander the silent streets, waiting
for news. There are the ones who join the circus
or go on safari: the explorers, the astronauts,
then there are the people who never leave
their first neighborhood, their first house.
Odysseus spent years trying to come home
but Penelope never left. He was seduced
by women with islands and sung to by sirens;
he held the wind in a bottle. But Penelope
slept differently in the same bed, weaving
and unweaving the daily details while men
she did not love gathered in her kitchen.
Her face grew thinner, her son grew taller.
Is that a journey? The ones who leave
come back with stories: an excitement
in their eyes. But the ones who stay
witness little changes: dust, weather, breath.
What happens to them happens so slowly
it seems not to be happening at all.
poetry 