SUNDAY POEM

You gods and bearded prophets, go squabble
in the pub for a while. I’ve heard enough
of heroes and lightning chariots streaking
across the sky. My companions are Cassandra
and Cordelia. They cook with me and wash
dishes afterwards. This chipped blue bowl
into which I dip my spoon is the
goddess’s face. The hand, which caresses—
its tendons and veins and miraculous
fingers—works her threads of light into
muscular days. I kneel to scrub the floor.