Slumped on your daybed still buzzing on yesterday, barefoot goddess, armed with a shot of ouzo, the remote by your side. But you’re four whole mountains and a hundred-carat sea, you’ve six thousand islands to your name: heiress, broke, selling it all, stealing your way to the bank again, hungover in your perfume of olive and grime. You’re a fig sign shaking the sky, you’re an open-armed shrug, welcoming as you reach for the valium. So many guests at your feet, on your islands like freckles, darkening. What will it be Athena? Another election, a little concealer? You are hooked on Twitter and telemarketing and the news of last Friday’s fratricide. Listen: the pitter-patter of another fracas. Behold, it will be televised.
Vasiliki lives in Athens, Greece. Her poems have appeared in magazines and online journals including New Boots and Pantisocracies, Lighthouse, Beloit Poetry Journal and The Interpreter’s House.