Scena Nostra

in phalaecian hendecasyllable

(XX|—∪∪|—∪|—∪|—X)

at the bottom of hills our stage is set and

our feet stand without purpose while the olive

trees behind us (unruly) sway in summer

winds. the slab where our tunics rest is worn and

empty. nude is your body under silk—your

curves rest tucked under violet patterns swaying

on your breasts like the breezes blowing from the

seashore. circles surround us—they are made of

stones that the slaves of our fathers carved in the hillsides

so that men and the gods can see us play so

well and wantonly. clouds are curtains, falling

for us. masks that are painted sit to hide your

Carthaginian skin—the men would throw their

pomegranates and figs if darkened skin graced

Zeus’s stage. in the Grecian summer, maidens

come to play with their flowered crowns and dear flutes

for Athena. the chorus men shall sing their

inklings bearing their faceless masks across the

pits to petrify man with droning voices.

hide your curves, my unresting darling: gods do

not want women to take their stage; but play your

legends boldly with candid subtle acting—

lest Poseidon uncover doomèd sweetness

and sends Easternmost waves to thrash our stage. but

let us radically take control on stage while

our tongues lap the delightful words of poets

before men and the gods, before we go back

to lap tongues as professions bearing our love.