We tangled, arm in arm, and leg over leg,
our limbs intertwined like a knot of seaweed
swept between rocks, or like a nautical knot.
I could no more leave her
than a barnacle could disengage itself
from its rock. And though she was immortal,
I could barely distinguish my shoulder
from hers, moored in her arms.
Mornings melted the iron tendons that bound me.
Mornings, I cast my gaze over the sea
and dreamt of distant Ithaca, and Penelope.
One morning, at long last I cast in my lot
with the sea, whose sinewy strength mirrored,
but never matched, Calypso’s sinuous grasp.