Beneath dark clouds that weave
through sky like Berenice’s Hair
where a sparkling diadem marks
the constellation’s transit through
the night, I sit and comb my own
tresses, promising whatever gods
will hear, vowing more than soul and
breath, if only, ah, if only he returns,
not from war like golden pharaohs but
from the arms of other queens, that I
will shear my auburn curls and offer them
as sacrifice, and if this is not enough,
I will give those hungry gods his blood.