. Mrs. Cyclops Ain’t really gonna leave. I’ll just pretend, Brontesa. Cy and I are bound. I simply Can’t bear to turn a blind eye to my mate--- Not even if our love-life’s off of late; Not even if his skin is coarse and pimply. At least not till his eye is on the mend. You heard he was attacked by some rank Greeks Who trespassed in our cave? Cy took a bite Of one---a sweaty sailor foul with fault. Cy said that the man was dry from too much salt. We had two more for dinner. Cooked ‘em right With olive oil, garum and some leeks. But then their leader lulled Cy into sleep By coaxing him to binge wine in extremis (He loves a nip no less than other folk). He got Cy drunk then gave his eye a poke! Those evil men! They crippled Polyphemus Then fled bound to the bellies of our sheep! Aye, Polyphemus is Cy’s given name. But it’s too long, Brontesa. I prefer Endearing terms. To me he’s always Cy. I well recall the day he caught my eye! He smelled of sheep, a vision garbed in fur! A brute, but quite the eyeful just the same. You’re right to question why I’m known to no one. On our first date I told Cy straight away “Don’t let my name be seen in any books! I’m sore about my height, my weight, my looks! I’ll keep your cave from dust and disarray. Just keep me private. I ain’t much to show one.” Our marriage? It’s convenient and compliant. Though he’s all brawn he thinks himself quite sly. ‘Course I’m the one who keeps our goals in sight. So what if now and then Cy picks a fight? He’ll always be the apple of my eye; A vision, aye, a legendary giant. . . The Return to Ithaca This shall not be forever, This life spent on the sea. __I’m going to find my one true love And joined again we’ll be. I’ll risk the howling tempest With sails high on the mast, __The stinging pain of loneliness Left firmly in the past. I’m sailing home to Ithaca; I hope to find her there __Devoted, waiting by the shore With myrtle in her hair; Her skin as white as sheep’s milk,__ Her lips as sweet as wine, __Her voice like breezes from the bay With whispers soft and fine. We’ll kiss in dappled sunlight Upon the Grecian shore, __And she shall press her lips to mine One hundred times or more! I’ll tell her that I love her And shall no longer roam. __I’ll be the husband that she’s missed And ever more stay home. . . Brian Yapko is a lawyer who also writes poetry. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.