love poem

I dreamt of a woman
My woman is not Ash Wednesday
Nor is she Good Friday
Nor the Sunday of Doubting Thomas
My woman is always Thursday.

That is to say inconceivable.

Her neck is a racetrack
Furrowed by hooves
A vibrating field.

She holds a small watch
Between her teeth
And when we kiss I worry
I might swallow it.

Then she will always know my rhythm.

My woman is not a tree
She is a stone
When I crunch her my teeth shatter.
She suffers too because it’s impossible for me
To change her shape.

I can only change her space
So I throw her away
And then I run like a dog sucking in the distance
To get her back.

Katerina Iliopoulou


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