by Christos Polydorou

img_20160626_164427.jpgI would want you to love me,
in another time and place,
because in this moment,
I barely love myself.

Because I am gawking at you
like you are a piece of meat
and I am, maybe a butcher,
all instinct, not even human, anymore,

in this moment, a wild animal,
like one of those enormous felines in sub-Saharan Africa,
part of a group,
a pride of lions,

advancing upon a zebra, an antelope,
or a wildebeest,
a poor unfortunate creature,

looking for a bit of grass,
some leaves,
a shrub,
a bush,

none of the lion’s violent
approach to gathering their food,
blood, guts,
everywhere. I would want you to love me

but often something in me
takes over,
something primal,

if left unsupervised,

and dangerous. You are not that young,
but you are rather perfect,
with your symmetrical body
and your wide shoulders.

You keep your mouth shut.
You say so little.
You linger in prettiness
and nobility.

Everybody wants this.