Poemj by Cloe Koutsoubelis
ANTIGONE
When Antigone leaves she always forgets something.
A lacy glove on the satin bed-sheet,
a steamy drop of lemon
on the cheek of a friend,
a stolen touch on a lover’s arm
a lip-mark on the porcelain tea-cup
when she drinks hastily.
Antigone forgets
the gauzy handkerchief moistened
by the sudden momentary tears
the little umbrella in the fragile rain.
Antigone forgets
the rustle of her dress when she walks
the fan that changes her seasons.
Antigone always forgets something
and for this she always leaves.
Only some nights
as she starts remembering things
she sprinkles ashes on her hair
buries herself in her cave
and laments for the not buried dead.
Manolis Aligizakis 