Standing on the sidelines of
the parade grounds, they are old now,
grandmothers, great-grandmothers;
women who forfeited their lovers
to the bagpipe sirens:
the tangled sheets cooled
by waving flags.
Penelope knew the secret,
the dark unraveling of the tapestry
keeping her fingers busy.
Never bury the dead.
Let them linger and take
their own time leaving.
Less anger that way. Less grief.
