North to South

By Alexandra Mouratidou


Spring is heard.

Seasons are strange here:

there is another topography in the senses. 

You’re smiling, but you don’t really get it,

sitting indolently on your garden’s blue bench,

disturbing the midday siesta of a geranium

with my letter’s crinkling.


I ate one when I saw you crying for Manos,

to see your sudden silence feigning a smile.

Really, was he finally buried in Samos?


Once you told me,

I dont know anyone else in such a hurry to grow old as you are.


I keep thinking of it

as I spend my days anxious,

as to whether the fog will mislead the ships:

where are they heading and why is it important?

Or, if the beacon will signal its ambivalent presence,

a sign:

what does it say and whom is it for?

And I grow old.

And each year we meet

on the 16th

we just add another number.


It’s not the years, though. No,

it’s the love of those we lose

that makes us old,

evaporated and materialized into

a hand

a tongue

a toe.

And every time another one goes

a wrinkle

a blotch

a freckle is added

onto the skin of this ethereal body.


Maybe that’s God. Growing old too.

And as the years go by,

love gets tired of losing

and eventually

we leave too.