Virtue

Sometimes at night it slips. Mneserete. I miss the sound of your name. Gyrating majestic motion slapping soft edges. Eating away the lines. Salty swirls crashing into land. Rushing too far in. Almost touching me. A yellow toad. At night I sit by it.

Your name. The soft sweet whisper that rose from screams in the night. Pure and good. Mneserete. First love and a clear blue sky. Your name. Thickly woven letters that guard them from your skin. The righteous limit between the land and the sea. Your name.

Moving up and down its salty flesh calls to me. Sometimes I miss your name. Gathered by its borders, eyes watching, I tear it from my heart, the fabric falling to my feet. Assembled lips close, eyes move to the side like a gate opening, unfolding the immoral path. Releasing me. Invited, I walk down it. Naked. Watched. Desired. Leaving the limits of the sand against the sea. Eroded. In the night. By your name.

Before the Areopagus

for each fallen word of Hypertes

a hundred eyes attacked

the jury must react

to a hetaeras’ impiety

disarmed bent and cracked

his silenced lover’s eulogy

sentenced by the filthy

a mild man’s impact

but the accused was touched by the heavens

when in Hypertes final detest

they saw the curves of divine craftsmen

incarnated in her chest

and offered all their pardons

when the cloth was torn bearing her godly breasts

La Pared

de Alejandro

destruido

quieren arreglarla

me negaron

Alejandro,

me negaron

mi nombre

the bend of your back

falls to my hands

angular and torn

in your silk

my fingers whisper

soft flesh to stone

una placa con mi nombre

me rechazan

un trozo de mi vida

en pierda

mi nombre

raspas en el corazón

against the wall

naked

moving in my hands

scrape across your back

soft flesh on stone

contra la pared

desnuda

me quieren

su piedra dura

dentro

entre

yo

y ellos

Alejandro,

me negaron

through cracks in the wall

naked

this city’s heart

climbing

a courtesan

desire stoned

entre en las grietas

de tu corazón

me encuentras

hay una placa

de piedra

mi piedra

mi placa

de Alejandro destruido

restaurado por Friné

la cortesana

de tu corazón

The Wall

“Destroyed by Alexander, restored by Phyne the courtesan.”

- phyrne

Alexander,

you destroyed it

Alexander,

I want to rebuild it

the bend of your back

falls to my hands

angular and torn

in your silk

my fingers whisper

soft flesh to stone

a piece of my life

my name

Alexander,

you destroyed it

Alexander,

they refuse me

my words

in stone

their heart

my name

against the wall

naked

moving in my hands

scrapes across your back

soft flesh on stone

against the wall

naked

Alexander,

they want me

their hard stone

inside me

between

me

and them

Alexander,

they refuse me

through cracks in the wall

naked

this city’s heart

climbing

a courtesan

desire stoned

enter in the cracks

of your heart

Alexander

this city’s heart

you’ll find me

in stone

on the wall

destroyed,

by you

Alexander,

they refuse me

Afrodita

entrando las grietas en la piedra

Su baño es para uno

entre

su forma

sus grietas

sus curvas

se rompió

se hizo

mujer

él

trabajando al ritmo

de mi forma

moviendo entre mis fronteras

anhelo sus bordes

usando mis curvas

divinidad esculpida

anhelo avanzando

sus manos cruzando mi cuerpo

cruzando el dinero de ellos

cruzando tu diseño inmortal

para ser humano

necesitas mi piel

mis huesos

mi sangre

para ser divina

necesito las manos de él

él quiere mi superficie

tu alma divina

infundido

atrapado

en piedra

phryne

down cracks in the stone

Her bath is for one

step in

She’s shaped

cracked

broken

curved

created

woman

he moved to my shape

he moves through my body

desiring Your edges

using my boarders

carved

desire crawls through him

on his hands and knees

across my body,

their money,

your immortal design

to become human

you need my flesh

to become divine

I need His hands

He wants my surface

your divine soul

infused

trapped

in stone

thoughts doodle

his outline

not her masterpiece

a dollop

for flavor

didn’t the recipe call for it?

with carefully chosen colors

and deliberate strokes

they’re able to enter

leaving the canvas

for what’s inside the painting

it’s strange living here

without a tongue

remembering the sound of the splat

as it slid off the terrace

flowers are taller than her in here

she reaches up to swing

from the crescent of the mooncareful

careful not to cut herself

on a nearby five-point star

her hand grows tired and starts to slide

a thin line slithers

below her

past her dangling feet

was that her tongue?

the letter m gracefully flaps past her

she loses her grip

ahead she sees the house

smoke still coming from the chimney

on her hands and knees

she craws through the door

to see what’s inside

El Tardor

summer wash

taken off the line

sweet potatoes and pomegranate

in the morning

perfume lingers on the street

the man at the shop

turns the sign

obert

beckoning

the migration

and time

from her siesta

wakes

stretches her arms

and looks for a sweater

Barcelona Dream

with wolf’s eyes and glass fingers

she’s trapped

heavy august sets in

enters her dreams

she kills

every morning she swims to work

empty

the killer

her august

her blood blue ink

dripping from its mouth

sharp glass teeth afraid to take another bite

afraid to kill

left her face up in the water

left her

floating in the sea

Anniversary

It’s cold and windy

on their terrace. She pours him another cup of tea.

In thick red letters on his mug, the word September

with a picture of a cloud and a rain-

bow. “Did you say more pepper,

my dear husband of thirty years, or paper?”

“I said more paper

you stupid deaf wife. Mine was just taken by the wind”

She picks up the pepper

and puts it down next to his tea.

She tells him that it’s going to rain;

says it always does in September.

He remembers last September.

He sat on his terrace reading the paper

almost every day and never any rain,

although very windy,

he recalls, as he takes another sip of his tea.

He pushes away the pepper

“I thought you wanted pepper,”

Her voice is sweet. In an angry voice he replies, “It never rains here in September

and what am I going to do? Put it in my tea?”

He continues to shout, “I wanted paper

you foolish wife! Mine was just taken by the wind

and by the way, about that rain…”

he pauses as his nose begins to tickle, “it never rains…”

he finally lets out an enormous sneeze (must have been from that pepper)

“It never rains here in September!”

he finally shouts (must have been the wind

that carried it to his tea)

“Now where, my simple wife, is my paper?

Woman! Go get me paper,”

he repeats I want to write before it rains!”

She smiles in response and slowly sips her tea.

She takes the shaker with the pepper

and begins to unwind

its top. She says to him, “I thought you said it never does in September”

So on that windy rainy day

in September that simple wife shouted “get your own damn  papar!”

as she took the rest of the pepper and dumped it into her dear husbands tea