If you were here, you would’ve seen the way
the slick dragonfly sat tenderly on my knee,
tasting the tropical lotion
as I sunned myself on the bleached dock.
It was as big as a fat maple leaf,
and I wondered if it got drunk on the faux pina colada droplets.
If you were here, I’d ask you,
do you think he remembers the taste of coconut from a past life in the Caribbean when he was a sea gull?
my attempt at sounding deep
because I can’t discuss physics, time travel or the God Particle.
You’d probably rub your chin, think about this,
then I’d say quickly,
do you know when I cry my eyes turn a peculiar green, what’s that about?
my attempt at lightening the mood,
because talk of past lives of insects is
a little too deep,
carries its own laws of physics I don’t understand.
If you were here, I’d tell you not to look at my thighs,
look at the lake, I’d say, the water is like oil,
as my uncle in Athens likes to randomly blurt out,
still, after the Alzheimer’s has eaten his consciousness,
he remembers his Aegean.
If you were here I’d quietly say,
I want to grow old with you,
and you’d act like you didn’t hear.
We’d watch that same drunk dragonfly hit the water, somersault, almost go under,
frantic, flutter back to life.
Nature is a cruel bitch, you’d say,
but God is merciful, I’d respond, look how every little thing fights for its life,
every little thing, taking the last word.
Polyxeni Angelis was born in Athens, Greece. She emigrated from Greece to America with her family in 1967. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology from the University of Minnesota. Her work has appeared in the 2011 Montreal Prize Global Poetry Anthology. Writing is her passion. She resides in Minnesota with her son.