Three Bodies, Three Stories
on the Gulf of Poets
Old castles, dead poets,
Saturday markets, golf courses,
Olive groves, sharp stones,
Percy Shelley drowned,
Mary Shelley dreamed
up Frankenstein,
called the creature forth
from cerulean waters.
Monsters and beauty are
never far separated.
A body lay still by the trail
wrapped in foil and tears
as a thousand travelers passed by.
Silver, still, under the blue sky.
A place of sadness,
A beautiful place to die.
A third story, a third body,
it was Easter Sunday.
Legend has it on the third day
Christ’s body was missing.
Could it have risen
according to tradition?
Even still, the problem of connection
to the dearly departed, body or no —
How to love one who is not present?
How to hold untouchable hands?
Laugh at unspeakable jokes?
Mirror a beloved face
Without a reflection?
