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by Rebecca Weigold


I hold these truths (What you give)


I hold these truths I cannot take
wrapped or boxed between my palms

I wear them like a teenager in her first
virgin wool dress from Sears-Roebuck

the flicker of our bodies in a spritz
of twilight

suspense in the heat of busy
merlot lips and meandering tongues

subject to freesia aphrodisia
I clutch to my breast

they have no color but without them I slip
from the pages of a back issue of Life

we sculpt with our bodies until all
movement casts us raw and dry and set

refined in the noir recesses of damp earth
What you give we launch at nightfall

freed from its shell like flying
fish shooting into the sky



a line, (a short blue one)


Had I the pleasure


to adorn you with myrtle
in Cretan olive groves,
                        I would first have to
                        scorn Athenian warning;
dive into your eyes the Blue
Caves of Zakynthos,
                        appease Ailuros
                        with drunkenness;
immerse my fingers in
your oxblood tendrils,
                        offer Aphrodite blood
                        of white dove for salt;
brush my thumb across
your dewy cheek,
                        eat fallen arils of
                        Sappho's pomegranate;
sip from the brim of your
coveted Romeiko,
                        sip from Attic red - figure kylix
                        of crimson anemone tea--

O goddess, that I would! 
                        That I would!




a line, (a blue one)


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