Athens

Nothing special in Athens except
about the Parthenon, the Acropolis, and outside the city,
the wind that blows across Poseidon's temple
onto blue sea, the coast.
We eat roasted lamb; we taste eggplant and garlic.
The coast is hot and blue, and everyone is nervous.
They live to be good hosts.
Remember Penelope?

In the city, packs of wild dogs roam the streets
terrorizing children.
If you remember, this is how the squirrels became our enemies,
they stopped fearing men.
The dogs think "What can man do to me?"

Red fox dog, the men bend over to offer me,
some teeth are rotten but most are white and unspoiled,
they bend to half-opened windows--
red fox dog--let me breathe, I say,
in the heat that presses down my soul and burns my skin,
I feel like saying nothing, getting into the shade,
luckily hot rock heat is blowing wind,
where they prayed to Poseidon on the red clay earth rocks
leading down to the sea and Aegeas first caught sight
of the black flag choosing his desperate ride
down through the wind to the cold blue sea.

Red fox dog.  Athenian night.
In the Dionysius theater,
one crumbled backdrop,
one blue night, one star above,
we hear the voices of the Greek people
and we know by their songs that they love their children.
This is Aegeas' curse.

Red fox dog, barking in packs,
the ancient dust, Athena's white face, stiffens my hair.
I am another pillar standing with my sisters and brothers
on a windy hill.

Red fox don, Athenian nights.
As the cab driver picks his nose,
sucks his sugared tea and replaces it in a plastic drink caddy
hanging beside the grimy steering wheel, shrugs,
he'd rather not take us anywhere, ashes fall lazily off the dash,
he doesn't shave or bathe,
he lights a cigarette in the warm blue night--
and yet the tiny women walk by
in short soft pink dresses with matching plastic pink purses,
their olive skin is perfect, immune to Athen's slow death.
This is Athena's blessing.

Red fox dog-Athenian nights.
On the mountain behind me, razed by speculators,
a pack of wild poodles is barking, enemy
of the nightwalk on the mountaintop cut stones
to the white orthodoxy where inside
God's fire paints maroon and teal and gold.

We eat Athenian nights.
We lick its dogs.
We drink the glue sky and sit on top of the white church
while wild dogs bark at our feet.

Red fox dog, Athenian nights.
Can you see in the distance a hearty stone Zeus laughing,
years of mischief and still the people of Athens are always late.
So spake Lysistrata.
The earth's own woman.

(c)Jill Winkowski                    2008

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI