by Christos Polydorou

So many loves
God bless.

But each to be more
ruinous than the last? You
weren’t like the last, you
never accused me
of attempting
to seem smart
or snarky by sarcastically
employing anachronisms or Ancient Greek
or scraps of Italian, French, German!
“Fuck you!” however,
every guy I have ever really
got close to has suggested to me, and
with a high volumed voice,
I might add, how could I not.

This one hurts a bit more, because,
wait, what’s that
line? About
brotherly love? As
you pray
for it not to rain? When
you are confronted
with an opponent, conquer
him with love? Did I
even love you? Or do
I make myself believe
I did because you
so violently opposed
me? So brutally traumatizing!
You don’t want to give him the pleasure.

The pleasure was his when he left you.

This time I am not going
to bury my broken heart

in the following way: set out
into the rain, with an umbrella
And go to the copse, where I
took you, looked into your greenblue

eyes and I was feeling
like I was suddenly drowning in a turquoise

sea characteristic of the Mediterranean. Now I lament. I
lament with Desdemona. I lament with Persephone. I
lament with Violetta, I lament with Juliet, I
lament with Mimi, and Gilda, and I lament
with Marie Antoinette, and I lament
with Káťa Kabanová and
I lament with Maria Callas.

And I lament with Orpheus.
And I lament with Odysseus.
And I lament with David, and with
the shocking beauty of his psalms,
to God. And I lament
with Jesus.

Because I have lost you.
And now I have nothing,

just myself
my broken heart,

(which I shall not
bury in the copse)

And these hands,
which write.