PUBLIC GARDEN
I insist that pride is always an injustice
to us and perhaps to others. The sour taste
is in the mouth — gums are oily
from cheap lard and burnt up onion,
suppers in dark neighbourhood restaurants, with
a foggy glass opposite you,
a glass eye that reflects and observes, when outside
the spring wind intensifies and you know
that the seeds of grapes and tomatoes are moistened
in the mouth of the woman. And if you try to light
a match her hair shines like a cascading fire that burns
her neck down to her shoulders; green caterpillars
appear in her underarms while the width of her lighted
belly creates a circular shadow on her legs.
Manolis Aligizakis 