Threshold

I’ve written over again about this water running down the body

and, oh, how much I still remember this;

coming off age.

You freeze time – or so you think –

but all that stays is the heat of summer,

and you hate it;

the sticky body

the dry hair

the dazed eyes.

A smoky smell arriving from the kitchen

the pasta getting burnt

and you were worried about the weather;

what to wear if it rains?

Now you cook with mastery

brush your hair

pick the clothes

ignore the weather;

all at the same time.

The air is salty outside

and it makes you think you should have cooked fish instead,

but not everybody likes fish.

Food is always consumed quickly

no matter the number of people

and it makes you wonder if it’s a worthy profession.

The throat is rough

some summer cold catching up

through the wet hair;

it wouldn’t have been so bad to leave it dry after all, would it?

Writing is not an easy job

and you don’t call it a job either.

It pulls you through

time

and suddenly you see your hands throwing food away;

and again it’s pasta

never some fish

you have been cooking all day.

You ’ve never cooked for the whole day.

You walk across the harbour

or all the way down to it,

your feet are nonetheless tired

your spine seems restless to the burden

but it’s not.

Time has passed and you are way off.

Some cold is catching up

and you decide to dye your hair

-your much longer hair-

before you see more white;

you can’t make peace with snow

though you spent your childhood seeking for it.

It’s summer now

is it not?

It’s another summer

but

you try to find a different word for it.

30 July 2017,

Athens.

Photograph: port of Hydra, Greece, 14 July 2012.

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Poetic Movements

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