Odysseus
In the worst moments,
when the sea rises up to engulf him
or fires the arrows of the sun
to scorch his eyes,
the image he clings to is not
the nymph,
or the sorceress,
or his wife or unknown child.
It’s the thought of roots,
strong and hale past death,
stretching into the earth.
Above them, the life he made
for himself remains,
held firm and fast,
a promise of something
(anything)
else.
And he thinks,
all is as it should be.
Genevieve MacKay is a Vancouver-based musician and writer who holds her MA in Ancient Culture, Religion, and Ethnicity from the University of British Columbia. Her writing has appeared in Room Magazine, Vallum Magazine, and Leaf Press’s “Monday’s Poem” series. As a musician, she has performed with the Plastic Acid Orchestra, Lions Gate Sinfonia, Kamloops Symphony, OperaFeHk, the indie band Sorry Buttons, Vancouver Viols, United Players of Vancouver, and more. In her spare time, she can be found drinking tea, reading lengthy novels, and practicing sun salutations.
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