Sweet Sixteen

The sun and warmth outside are glorious. I've opened all the windows in the dining and living rooms and fresh(ish) air is coming in. As is the smell of re-energized dog dung, the sound of roofers nailing shingles to houses, birds tweeting and twittering, and the distant rush of traffic on Shawano Ave.  Willow's lying next to me and her dog smell is getting up my nose. I don't think she cares about that. She's a little miffed that I'm not letting her bark her asinine head off out the front window. Apparently, I need to be guarded against Spring.

Husband Dave is out on his girlfriend, the Harley (I should know right away what kind it is but for some reason that space in my memory is always blank when I visit it). She's blue, in any case, and feels good between the legs. I know this from riding on her back. Oh, snap -- she's a Sportster. That just fell into place.

Memory is getting tricky. I'll want to access the most banal of information (like someone's name) and the space will show blank. The harder I try to fill that space, the more elusive the memory becomes. Reminds me of when I was a little girl and we'd be on some horrifying long car trip. I'd have to pee for mile after mile, and when Dad would finally agree that we could stop to unload, I'd have "shy bladder" and not be able to let the stream go. Maddening and painful. Mom would have to turn on the water in a sink to try to prime the pump.

Today's poem prompt comes from http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/ -- Write a poem about your favorite Greek god.

Hm. Who is my favorite?  I don't know if I have one. But the first who comes to mind is Athena, so I'll write about her.

*

Fan Letter to Athena

Dear Athena:
I am writing to express my deep appreciation
for your mad battle skills. You're a rocking role model
for any serious professional: clever, strategic,
excellent at disguise, no nonsense (you'd never be caught
gossiping at the urinals, or internet shopping for shoes
in your cube), no toady to power but with a healthy respect
for it and the ability, when pressed, to offer it the truth,
a daddy's girl who doesn't flaunt her influence,
a woman who admires brains over braun but who
recognizes the need, at times, for both. I understand
why you love Odysseus -- he's witty and cute,
his arrogance can be a problem but he's brave enough
to admit when he's made a mistake, he's loyal in mind
but not body, a homeboy at heart, somewhat of a bro
but not, thank god, a douche or a dick. I think I've met
some of his ancestors and I'll always prefer them,
as you do, to cranky status-obsessed assholes like
Poseidon or Achilles, who even though they may be right
have no sense of scale when it comes to themselves.
I'll admit, though, that I'm not happy about your motherless status,
that whole "sprang straight from her father's head" thing,
immaculate conception in reverse. What? Are you the original
sperm child? Woman as Penis? And there's something
never-sexy about you, some virginal reserve that suggests
the rest of us are simply damaged goods, walking uterii,
doomed to melt into mother fat even if we never serve
as wives or mothers or even lovers. But that sort of grudge
doesn't belong in this homage to your legends, so forget
I ever mentioned it. And carry on, dear warrior,
now appearing as Mentor, then again as a cocky young shepherd,
gender bending, whispering, insinuating yourself into
the tentative consciousness, urging action, adventure,
travel, the discovery of destiny,  making us go out into the world
in order to find our way home.