Josette Akresh
Lesbia
                            (a Sappho desire, adapted)

Heavenly he sits by your side,
God-like, listening to the ecstasy of your
hymn-touched lips, your blushing cheeks
that fill with laughter-breath,
obsidian eyes reflecting
traces of light in my direction.

I watch you with him, a shadow
puppet dance, and I the spectator, whistling
in the audience, under
my breath, confined,
obstructed by the orchestra pit
of people between us, a cacophony,
meaningless mumbles, Ignorance.

You numb my tongue as I
watch your lithe body turn in a
coffee-tinted wooden chair. Shining,
you glance at me and do not
realize how my body wishes for yours.

Lesbia, goddess of the latté night.
Without sense I slump in my folding chair,
My arms wishing to fold themselves
around you. Moon dilates
round and beautiful, light crescendo breeze
impresses bare skin at collarbone,
moon-tinted skin on the insides of your wrists,
ruffles my hair, kisses my neck.
I am dizzy in the resonance of your
imagined embrace.

Marlborough Street

Conversation holds, hypnotic
As we strain full with Italian pasta,
Numb from warmth within;
Breath fogs in cold October.

Magnets polarized we walk,
North and South on the East to West
Of this street, but so close I could reach
Over and close my grip around his -

A reflex to grasp a finger in my palm,
Maybe this fear left over form the zoo.
Fear of the bared teeth of panther
Stalking, I read to a hand, instinctively.

My blush inches like afternoon
Shadow on sunset cheek.
Do I mask remnants of insecurity?

Brick-red cobblestones under my feet,
yellow-umber leaves lit by gas lamps -
A rural square within city blocks,
"Romantic," I breathe inwardly,
but say nothing of my bitter heart.

I let the layers peel aside
Like a frozen cabbage, knowing
If he asked I would open my leaves,
Reveal my core of truth -
Noise that grates on nerves
Like neon signs, past hidden under years of
Public transportation,
Squeal of burnt rubber.

Yet this silence captures and attention,
Never a break in stride.
Quiet shelters a preserve, scented with
Molasses of maples on either side.
Our throats have clamped shut,
We walk still as if the street itself has built
Brick walls between out hands.

<< Back to Issue 3, 2000