Four Women

One woman is cleaning out crumbs from behind the toaster,
One woman is dying of melanoma,
One woman is taking a ferry from Piraeus to the island of Rhodes—
Oddly, she is not the happiest.

The woman with melanoma knows no one will leave her
Least of all her husband of twenty years.
Once, many years ago, he told her he had a fantasy
Of a mistress he could visit in the afternoons.

The woman on the ferry sees the expanse of water,
Writing in her notebook
She is conscious of death, of body hair,
How an idea of beauty has tricked her into submission.

The dying woman knows her husband’s imaginary mistress
Is not particularly young, or beautiful
Has stretchmarks of her own, but her power
Is that she is well, smells fresh, will live…

The woman with melanoma leaves four children,
The woman on the ferry has none,
I am the woman cleaning the crumbs,
Closing the toaster door too hard on my thumb.

Who sees the glint of light on the water?
Who holds the knife to the wrist?
Who admires the marble nude Aphrodite
Or the naked bronze sea god?

Maybe all these women are just one woman
Like the girl with the dove on the funeral stele
Dead, reborn, gone, remembered—
Holding the white bird in one hand.