Modern geisha (final draft)
by Christos Polydorou
He was a husband.
A human race in descent.
In an empty man.
He effected me.
On both knees.
A day which kept happening.
He had an infinitesimal heart.
But he was smart.
He even harboured appreciation for the performing arts.
My body is on fire.
If I begin to ooze like a volcano
erupting, will you love me less,
or more? Toad on a water lily.
Tea ceremonies. Poetry. Literature.
(I said, to which he said)
Read to me?
Sing me to sleep.
I am feeling unwell. Hold me?
He preferred it at a lukewarm temperature.
My kisses he liked ice cold.
Unlike a theory, a husband.
No shoes on the carpets.
A beauty in a man of sombre sobriety.
Unlike a husband, an expectation.
too linger on the eastern front of abstinence.
Meanwhile Love the hunter surrounds us,
inserts its hunt
into our six senses.
Meanwhile I am separating here and now
from the other two – or is it three? –