Penelope

I make and unmake.
Seedy swains still linger,
drunk in a draughty hall
while my finger-

tips bead with blisters.
Lacking friend and lover,
I tell a manchild of
a misty father.

Come, my slayer,
put these rams to pasture;
geld them mid-gambol;
grind their horns to powder.

Why stay at midsea,
take for wife saltwater?
Gift these bristling louts
your wine and quarter?

I weave and unweave,
the pattern never alter,
lest design stray,
faith falter.