The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Andrew Oerke

Cyprus Aphrodite Revisited


The gouache of the moon whitewashes a darkness

that Mediterranean constellations can't lighten.

The chalk whispers, "Absence is here since she's not."

I wish the chalk wouldn't whisper so loud;

in fact it's like it's scraping night's blackboard,

then erasing its message.  I don't want to see it;

like blood in the bull ring, I don't want to see it;

I don't want to read the screed of the chalk

whose graffiti is so extreme it covers

the walls, the rock fences, the clock tower.

It's chalk on all blackboards till there's only chalk

some would think is unmitigated moonlight,

or great white rectangles like pages unwritten.

This chalk could even turn red blood cells white

as the moon broods over its legendary waters

sated with sea serpents and other scaly monsters,

and stuffed with legends and civilization's shuck

and jive, all of it blown off like mist

towards morning that serves up the lighter light

of day that blots up the richer shades of night,

so why aren't my feelings also whited out outright, right?

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