*
ODYSSEUS IN THE V.A. HOSPITAL
The son of Kronos is not always so kind.
Sometimes he sends you on a 20-year journey
to prove yourself. And just when you think
you're home for good, he tells his daughter
to tell you you haven't suffered enough,
not by a long shot, even if you thought you'd
lived up to your name and could rest
on your laurels. So you wake up in
yet another strange bed, wondering why
Athena doesn't answer when you buzz her,
why all the doctors are named Tiresias.
You remember vaguely how you tricked
the Kyklops and wish some trick like that
would get you past the red tape and out of here.
You want to go home to Penelope, who'd be
just as good at spoon-feeding you as the aide
who looks like the loveliest of goddesses
but speaks as if you're two years old. Alas,
Penelope—so used to waiting—does not interfere
with fate but sits home weaving and unraveling
your shroud, fending off more dirty old men
than you could shake a stick at if you got a chance.
And where is Telémakhos when you need him?
Down the hall, in the waiting room, pacing.
Telémakhos is afraid age, like valor, is contagious.
If Eurýkleia were alive, she'd pull the plug for you,
only she's not, and you curse yourself for forgetting
to make a living will before anyone questioned
your mental capacity. You want to believe you could
sail the seas and conquer death with your eyes closed.
Your valor is legendary, and you have served the gods.
But mornings, dawn looks as bloody as your urine;
and evenings, the stars are nothing more than
points of light on the monitor at your side.
Kalypso's shimmering isle is a million miles away.
Agamemnon wouldn't stand for this, you say
as they change your linens, as you close your eyes
like a man skilled in all ways of contending.
LISTEN TO A READING OF THIS POEM
Credit for poem: Mitchell, Felicia. "Odysseus in the V.A. Hospital." Potpourri. A Quarterly Magazine of the Arts 14.2 (2002): 69.
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Credit for image: Fallen Warrior figure from R. angle of W. pediment, Temple of Aphaia, Aegina. ca. 500-490 B.C.