When we make love, it is in darkness or with blindfolds.
I have learned so well the sinuous curves
of hips and thighs, mapping subterranean passages
or the high breathy places where eagles nest.
I know her best by hand, by fingertouch,
by the sweetness of incense on my lips.
Sometimes, she whispers in Greek—
se skeftomai sinehia, se hriazome—
the words coiling like snakes in my throat.
Her language is so secret.
Our house has no mirrors,
and I can see myself only in her words.
Today, you are beautiful, anasa mou,
today, you wear sunlight in your hair
and I would tangle my hands in you
to grow warm and brown from kissing.
I do not know how pale she is.
You break so quickly, she tells me,
like black earthen kylix.
You are a child. You are a child.
I am so old that you cannot love me.
S’agapo san paidi.
I love you like a child.
When her hands wind behind my head
and my lips taste myrrh and orange on her skin,
I feel the immolation of her gaze,
the hot, slick love of the Gorgon,
and she is beautiful.
Afterward, she whispers:
Ki’taxa vathia’ mes sta ma’tia sou ke i’da to me’llon mas:
I looked deep into your eyes and saw our future.
I am transfixed.