Ulysses in the Bardo
by Mark Frutkin
In fact, Ulysses died
that late afternoon on the fields of Troy,
a long spear hurtling
down from the city’s walls
pierced him straight
through the heart,
pinned him to the ground –
his life rushed out
faster than it takes a rook
landing in a branch
to close its wings
In his mind loosed
from the weight of its anchor
he fled back to his curved ship
and set sail that very night
Then followed encounters with monsters,
fearsome gods and storms
black and turbulent
and seas high as eagles’ crags,
days lit with fear
nights lost wandering
like a star unhinged from the sky
He reached Ithaca
and dispatched the suitors,
reclaimed wife and home,
but no one could see him,
his own son couldn’t hear
his pleas, his joyous song of return –
eventually he wandered off into mountains,
dissolved like a mist
rising between rocky cliffs
All of these journeys occurred
all of these stories were lived
in the time it takes
for a rook to open its wings,
take flight from a tree.
