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"Hodos," Greek, a
traveled way, a road.

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The idea of a woman as a
road has a certain appeal.

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I think of setting off along
myself, boots sucking softly

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at the mud.

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The Greeks imagined the
uterus hiking up and down.

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The booted empty uterus,
sniffing for blood.

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And the virgin oracle set
a stool above a volcano,

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and squatted down,
and Apollo entered her

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through the vented fumes.

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The two of them churned
the road together,

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until the mud was dust
and her womb cried out

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with a memory of what
had never happened.

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And then, as she floated,
hysterical, inside herself,

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the god would fill
her jaws, and speak.

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I think of a trail crumbling
off a cliff in Hawaii, a charred

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bicycle tire in a Hiroshima
museum, a page from a diary

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displayed behind glass
with its own special lamp.

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Journeys penetrate.

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Afterward, song and the
stench of burning from things

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we thought were private.