by Christos Polydorou

img_20160427_134603.jpgYou worry
What is it?
Pulls you near,
wishes to visit
although you are as closed
as night rose…

It’s surrounds you
It becomes your senses
You see and smell nothing else
but misery and sadness…

Oh my darling,
has no one loved you?
As you needed to be loved.
This is not a cold December day.

This is the beginning of June.
Run and hide from the summer sun?
Stay in doors, duct-tape all the windows,

crawl under all the winter coats there are,
and it will find you, a beam of light, a feather
from the sky, the thing you needed, that proof,

from a liminal space, where you went to once
and you would like to go to again. Find a friend,

someone will hold you in your arms without fear
of being stabbed in the back, your heart split open,
because you were vulnerable.

You opened your mouth,
and decided not to lie.

You decided to be

The truth,
you explained,

is always much more shocking,
is always so much more revivifying

than anything made up.
What worry?

I’m sorry.
I suppose I had to change.

Look at me,
dancing with limber spirits,

and changed.