Hellas

Meandering marble way
cobbles rough-hewn, worn smooth
and s l i p p e r y
by the timeless steps of commerce.
All roads don’t lead to Rome,
but this one does.
So one heart bleeds to the next.

The green slopes of grandfather’s crown
are streaked silver –
glimmering with age and olive shrubs.
Walk below them and breathe deep.
Let the salt crust the tip of your tongue.
Let the soil be pierced
by the spears and the olive roots,
for the gods will do battle
over and against our hearts
however we might feel about it.

Speaking of the gods,
did you see?
Artemis and Aphrodite lined up
lingering alongside Christ
and the Blessed Virgin.

Icons only three euros each.

When mouths shut,
the stones begin to speak
and sweat – a solid foundation
that nevertheless slips the shoddy feet
and causes me to stumble
down the stairs, direct
through the chapel door,
propels to take a hard wooden seat
and begin breathless silent prayers.
Dionysus and Demeter will wait outside.

Ancient history and Ancient of Days
whose worship spans
street corners to stock markets,
lines drawn,
battle commenced
unto a foregone conclusion.

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