Too long now a sunrise was the only memory you photographed.
You always spoke of Athens and its colonnades of stone.
Marble, a forgotten story. Your fingers didn't want to let go.
Didn't believe the Mediterranean held anything more
Than love-starved, rained-upon Londoners.
They'll go to Ibiza like they do every year, perform the art of
Hedonism with groggy eyes. Stunned. Another day
In helpless paradise.
They told you Sam was on a hilltop road
Where truffles and boars dare to grow.
Near Milan? You never said. You did imply
He was a lover, though. One with fine fingers,
Obviously used to piano. A grey-haired sergeant
Oblivious to a new world
Where marriage was for the old.
The infirm. For the cornstalks
Refusing to dislodge their roots
In a cyclone.
Athens is so far away from Kansas
Where you first learnt to sew.
A seamstress. Thimble and thread
Your deliverance and bread.
A mother, too blind to read the daily paper.
"In our days, there were no such things
As fancy surgeons
Willing to contemplate anything
But how to prevent
Untimely death."
I read each story slowly, let you savour the sights
Of another century torn by war and infernos.
I mention how many died, how many decided
It was time to fight.
You take especial pride in these victories
Of the human condition. I guess that's where you and I
Can agree far too easily.
I see the missed connections
Spanning fifty years. You are alone now. I know this.
You know this story will end.
|
Submission Name: Julie
