Fills the spaces up

by Christos Polydorou

I stay up all night.
I write.
Sometimes in Japanese.

It means nothing to me.
Emblems of straying.
Colonies of exceptionally chalky loneliness,

I redistribute them across the cave walls,
the stalactites,
and the stalagmites, although.

I would not dance with Franz Kafka.
He was too graceless,
and I am brimmed with the grace, of Aphrodite,

the goddess of Cyprus,
the goddess of beauty, love,
procreation, and pleasure.

See, I was a woman once,
circa 600 B.C.,
remember me, my treasure?
Someone in the future.

I was a woman once I said, and
one of my gifts as a woman
was the language of mermaids.

With the mermaids of Homer,
for example,
I have swum

with the dolphins,
the turtles,
I have swam with the octopuses

and the whales, I swam with the apexes,
I am of my mother, and of my father
but my spirit belongs to eternity.

I sometimes sit perfectly still
as it leaps out of my body
like off of a diving board,

into the tranquil purple seas
of infinity
and I sit back, not dreaming any of it.

When I swam breathless in the sea,
a female poet, circa 600 B.C.