| TO BRING HER CUPS |
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There is love for you matron, Your smooth white skin, Like cream, verily, verily, verily. And your cat, a cat that might ... Might want to love you for ever, Ever after, until corpses dance and leap from the tomb. Now go and pray: you've made love to your boy, Your Adonis, your Endymion, your Actaeon. To love you, to be faithful to you in a fashion. Because the pretty girl surreptitiously, unabashedly, Embraces black Apollos with white white teeth At parties, fetes, and celebrations (perhaps on all occasions). But for a religious tone in which the sacrifice is calfed, Parted out, vivisected, distributed to gods and priestesses, The young king requires (besides prose arranged in columns) a simple thing, To end, finish, kiss oblivion. |
| Gregory Arena is 38 and lives in Bergamo in Northern Italy with his wife and baby daughter. When not writing or teaching English he likes trekking, cycling, and cross-country skiing. Ages ago he took a degree in English and then took about half of a degree in Classics before having to drop it. He's wandered about quite a bit: Southern California, London, Europe, Greece, and Africa. Now he's settled down in Italy and has published a fair amount of short stories and poems in Small Press publications |
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Poem © Gregory Santa Arena, 2001 Web design by Gerald England This page last updated: 31st October 2002. |