Katerina Iliopoulou
Here the days don’t dissolve in air
they fall into the water
shaping their own shell
a sheen of separation.
A hawk flies over summer’s body
diving again, again
feeding and drunk from the fall.
There’s nothing here
but manic wind alone and stones
and sea
a senseless promise
sharpens our lust with the moon’s blade.
When I arrived here, in the landscape of endings,
the wind entered my mouth with so much rage
as if I were its only vessel
until all my words vanished.
Each tree receives the wind’s gust differently
some suffer, others—again—resist
(I’ve met a palm tree that birthed the wind,
then sent it in every direction)
others shiver all over and change colors.
I, of course, am not a tree
I sat down and wore the wind’s coat
I stooped my head and looked at the ground
through its cracks, thyme’s roots
& their hieroglyphics
struggled to enter the light.
Then the words came back.
Translated from the modern Greek by Jackson Watson
Photo credit: The Cradle Magazine