I go for the parasol pines, caves that crumble
the dark in their mouths, black-kerchiefed women
furrowed and ochre as soil. I go for the sun
at the heart of the world, glossy lemons in glossy
dark leaves, climbing the pergola. For the fishingboats,
leaving at dusk, rigging outlined in lights.
Museums, cathedrals, architectural sites no longer
slip under the skin, enter the blood.
I go for the mound of black olives, green figs,
royal aubergines. For the awnings unfurled like
striped greetings each day, and beyond them thesea,
the great second mother. Never enough.
There are places we flee to where the world startsagain,
weightless and sensual, constant and real.
Where the body takes care of itself
and the mindís bloody hands open for rain.
Copyright © 1989 byNadya
From Before We Were Strangersby
Forest Books, 1989.