The Hesperides Sisters
From the promenade, we see the sunset sisters
shine on the parked cars, light up
a bumper sticker of their father Atlas,
who seems to endure
holding up the heavens, sweating
dumb sweet pheromones, like the boy beside me –
his flex of bicep crackling like lightening
as he swings my hand. Does he know
the heat of the sisters or,
does he think
they are cool as
the wishing star for twinkling
like a Roman Beauty over the sea? Or that
they wanted to pose in a garden
of flaming oranges that men must not pick
for fear of turning to stone?
they are not glowing nicely here, they are not
lounging below the globe of a
Northern hemisphere setting
as painted by other men – they were never
erotic that way, but bored.
the sooty shearwater eating
the light, the swooping up
of hands into water,
let them be the fire-
dance in his eyes.
A Line from Ulysses
Penelope swims in UV and flap-flap
air affliction, a veil awave upon the waves.
Tosh-tosh, she doesn’t weep while he’s gone,
she sleeps and looks after the bl—
blaring children, putting on
pyjamas, porridging them and
playing with yellow putty,
the thing she despises, his
home-coming; the weeping
when it comes will be furious, the hitting
upon his chewy chest she wants to, won’t
contain. It’s too hard being
a single fucking parent.