When Odysseus fell off his horse

When Odysseus fell off his horse
in the courtyard dust, nobody laughed.

 As waves of miniature tsunami tickled
the sides of the water trough, not a stir

in the stable boy, tying and untying
nooses in the shed. Nor did the waiting-girl,

whose aberrant back he’d lashed once more
that morning, work up a smirk

when he tripped on dizzy feet and landed
face first in the shit. In fact, nothing moved

at all. The air hovered still as a bubble
as he got up and dusted down his thighs.

Then one noise - a slow and careful tearing,
a scalpel slit in time, and then a sucking,

a taking in of breath to the hot dark forge
of his throat. Here things done are melted

and recast into words, into another space
where he tells his waiting audience of how

he rode off on Polydorus’ strong backed mare
to fetch the raging boar and have it home

for dinner. And you don’t see a thing
but his mouth, his grin and his tongue

carving up a tale with the sharpness
of a fishwife’s blade, as she guts snapper

and tosses the dark innards to dogs and gulls
whose rabid beaks always look like laughter.