Gesso
for every precipice an ascent of maisons
of white-washed paint around blue domes
in chalked churches sprinkled over santorini
different men in worn-out blue jeans
with scales in their plastered uniforms
are glueing the white and blue details of the cyclades
masons smoke with a keen eye for oia's palette
working temporary jobs before the season comes
they jump in to paint cans according to the contract
into empty infinite pools to paint blue bottom tiles
and yet the sky is whole unreflective grey and wintry
past the donkeys carrying around carpentries & fibreglass in a violent pace
all so fleeting and soon they'll all give room
to some lacquered eccentric glamour, a mix between colossal beauty & awe
Paros diary # 1
we board on the blue star ferry in piraeus heading to the cyclades
and by noon we are amongst whitewashed houses, blue domes,
a local farmers market on the main street selling fresh tomatoes
we buy for lunch. sardines sparkle the waters, their silver scales
turning golden as their spines bubble in the hot oil. we eat vegan
lunch despite the smell of fry around us. a walk along the coast
of parikia and its salty atmosphere guides us: braids and flecks
of seaweeds ashore, an elongated sun in the sea, plastic bottles,
rubber conches & latex shells nature has rejected for mudlarking.
thyme shrubs & rosemaries in front of the villas, cacti for desert
gardening. we find more orthodox churches than tourists during
off-season. soon i shall come back to st nikolaos thalassitis church
& light a candle giving thanks to what i prayed to last time around:
you, beauty & glory, jasmine blossom, my body harbouring yours.
Self portrait as two Caravaggios
now I look at myself and feel more mannish love
since you asked me—& I excitedly agreed—to try
growing a moustache. Do I lose though
my cherished youth
do I resemble or am I quite more like a vandalised Mario Minniti
posing with a basket of fruits?
Here, I lay still
ripe cherry lips, peaches
& apricots of the season
I offer you tonight:
skinny dip into my body
clean-shaven hole last night
smooth for the coarse brush
of you working the canvas
I stretch for you love
& night sweats wake me up at night
& I check if you're still there, if you see me as a concert or fugue.
_____________
e.r. de siqueira is a Latinx working class poet, originally from Brazil. He read English at
UFMG. Poetry works have appeared/are forthcoming in Magma, Under the Radar, The
Interpreter’s House, The Cortland Review, Fruit Journal, and in the anthologies "Responses
to Untitled (eye with comet)(c.1985) by Paul Thek" and "Mein schwules auge - My Gay
Eye"
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