Penelope’s Shroud

by Isabella Lin, 15

A storm twisted, surely an ego bruised

It enshrouded Ithaca in a looming haze;

What loomed greater were a hundred men, all soused

Drinking from my husband’s cup 

Demanding my flesh and my hand 

And so, I have made myself the bullseye past

A dozen axe heads in a row

The man who can string my husband’s bow and puncture the shield

Between me and life shall have my hand

My nailbeds are stained red from picking

During all those years where I felt my womb ticking

The men shan’t recognize my scheme

My gullet at the end, soon to be punctured

A heart at the end, soon to be ruptured

They don’t notice the courage I weave

My armor hides beneath my sleeves