For Fate Has Wove the Thread


Three thousand years ago Odysseus comes home to
a mirage—or so the story goes. Three thousand years
ago when I come home it's to the same shroud of godly
illusion that tricks me into turning away. The lie that
deceives the deceiver. Can I call it justice?

Home is just a people when there is no place. Home is
a place in any other circumstance. (Home is a place.
I can't reconcile where.) I don't know where I am but I
think I know why I'm here—this is a wandering of epic.
"Calliope," I beg into nothing. "Let me recite this.
Let me tell it again."

The heavens are heavy with the weight of my wishes of
a different time and a different place. If God saw me,
he would call me ungrateful. If I saw myself from a
different body I would tell God I’m homesick, but I
know better. I'm such a sorry sight, I think, looking
at my own image from outside my fading form. Wanting
time to stop for nothing.

But I wander through mouths like myth. My throat is
blackened with the smoke of relics, of Notre Dame.
Of being spoken into existence. It hurts to tell
the story.

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