Every morning your mouth smells of oleander
and as sleep still lies heavy on your eyes
I take you again where the darkness
shielded us yesterday
without identity, assimilated and entire.
What little light enters through the window
makes visible the marks on the neck,
the breast, the belly, as if from a fight
our love gave and won
and you awaking serene
and sperm-silvered,
making sure of my regard
and going back to sleep in your oleanders.
Who knows what you’re dreaming of and won’t let go of my hand,
pressing it and unbending like a child
afraid to be left alone in its dreams.
You plunge into a sea of me and you
without seaweed and sky, only
mouth, perspiration and whispering. Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas
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