By Efi Kalogeraki


Language is like a skin I choose to change. 

Every summer, snake skin left under

landscapes, heights and depths, I rearrange. 


I divide places, shuffle them. An exchange

of foreign currencies and I wonder 

how language became a skin I change.


I dive in between. I become estranged 

from myself like a universe asunder,

when landscapes, heights, depths I rearrange.


Symptoms of this constant sea change,

the loss of balance, words that blunder, 

language becomes a skin you change.


Familiar intonations resist and rage 

against my unscrupulous plunder 

of landscapes. Heights and depths, I rearrange. 


But it’s seamless, rootless. My language

dies every time I look back, a reminder

that language is a skin I choose to change

when landscapes, heights and depths I rearrange.