I was born with a jug on my head,
oregano grew wild on the craggy island,
and in caves honey could be gathered
with a slotted branch. I was his housekeeper.
As he was a priest, I had to be over fifty:
I was not, but I looked it. I chopped mushrooms
the size of his foot. One evening my hand
was on the knife. He put his hand on mine.
Be careful, he said, when you make offerings
to the gods. Months later, I gave birth.
The baby’s screams were berserk, like a bird over
the ocean, but she grew strong and wed and left.
He found her again and they had a son together.
A few millennia later, I was in bed but couldn’t
sleep, I walked to the bathroom for a glass of water
and realized from this journey on I would drink alone,
that all the public fountains had been condemned,
crumbled, passed out of fashion forever.
I looked around: a rack of toothbrushes stood out
like stone maidens no longer supporting a roof.
The rubber picks on their bases gave me the strength
normally associated with spears.