and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn’t far off.
P
Anaktoria’s flesh seems almost transparent—a sensuous softness coming from inside. When my girls are dancing on the terrace or in the garden, I wonder who is most beautiful.
Kleis spins. Atthis bends, arms upflung. I see a grape-tinted breast, fragile ankles. Yellow hair flies over shoulders. Gyrinno’s throat is perfect. Malva’s thighs. Look, Atthis and Anaktoria are dancing together. For an instant, their lips meet.
Tiles are blue underfoot.
Our wonderful harpist, an old woman, watches with burning, lidless eyes, remembering her naked days, playing them back again.
Cypress are drenched with sun.
P