Valerie Hunter
English I Reads the Odyssey

Kate is convinced the Odyssey
is the stupidest thing Mr. Lampman
has ever made them read
(even worse than Romeo and Juliet
and its never-ending angst,
or that O. Henry story
with the idiot who sold her hair
for her husband’s Christmas gift).
How is Odysseus a hero, so revered,
when all he does is make terrible
decisions, lead his men into danger,
then watch sadly as they die,
like he’s not to blame?

But still, she gets drawn in
by the part with the Sirens.
Odysseus continues to be a dick,
but the Sirens themselves beguile her,
the idea of these women
who constantly lure men to their deaths
simply because they can.

“Just men?” Kate dares to ask,
and Mr. Lampman pauses, considering,
then says, “Well, women wouldn’t be
on ships back then, it was considered unlucky.
So yes, just men.”

Kate nods while thinking that’s a cop-out.
Surely somewhere, in all of those long ago centuries,
in the age of myths and magic,
somewhere a woman found herself on a ship,
someone’s wife or sister or whore,
a servant or a slave or a victim
of kidnapping, or maybe
a woman with her hair cropped short
and her chest bound
under layers of men’s clothing,
being herself through her disguise.

Unlikely, maybe, but not as unlikely
that no woman in the history of ever                       
has heard the Sirens’ song.                

The woman’s reaction is harder to envisage.
Maybe the song’s allure is genderless,
grabs and drags whoever hears it,
but Kate doesn’t think so,
because where’s the fun in that?
No, Kate’s Sirens only affected
those who were deserving,
the bro-dudes stupid enough to listen
to false flattery, the creeps
gullible enough to believe
that everyone desired them.
And once they all jumped overboard
and met their ends, the hidden woman
who remained would give the Sirens a nod,
a silent thank you in acknowledgement
for the boat she now captained.