Calypso Contemplates a Cowbird Mating Pair

Think of Penelope—eating 
alone in her room. Tired
of her mind’s grief’s appetite,

she goes downstairs one night 
to join her unwanted guests.
It’s true a horde

of cowbird males might court 
one female in the breeding 
season, might throw

a smaller fledgling
from its nest to make space 
for the new brood. Where

is her son, Telemachus?
Let’s say just one
of her voracious suitors

isn’t arrogant like all the rest, 
keeps to himself. That she likes 
that, which surprises her.

Maybe this night Penelope and he 
get to talking. Turns out he’s
a herder too. In some ways

seemingly dull,
the cowbird male has nothing 
striking, nothing that flashes

like lightning, except
contrast. The division of colors 
between head—brown

as the trunks of wet trees— 
and glossy body—black-green 
like the storm on the sea.

This pair shares a branch 
on which to perch, pecking 
at olives doused with oil.

Maybe after all these years 
she prefers ham and fig
and a glass of wine by the fire,

a book in each lap, and needs 
no show of ire, no revenge,
but the way he loves to watch her

drive the cattle in, the ones 
the other suitors haven’t 
slaughtered. All day

it is evening. Everywhere wings 
seek shelter from the downpour.
They leave their muddy boots

in the boot room, laugh
under the loom at the bleating 
of goats in the middle of it.

And what of Odysseus?
How they’ve both
come in from the rain. She

in her foyer, and he
in this cave. What if she wrote 
to him, thought long and hard

at what to say. What if 
she wrote to him,
and told him, Stay.

Read more from Issue 18.1.