THE LYRE

Balalaika crackling

on the boom box.

Lamb on the grill,

skewered in its sibilance.

A day wrapped in grape

leaves. Muslin.

Bare shoulders. Nipples

of men

playing peek-a-boo

before a stilling sun.

A backyard

bacchanalia. Garland

rounding temples. Aphrodite,

Artemis, Dionysus,

Zephyr. White sheets

all. It’s a comfort

to be a God among Gods

and Greek, gorging

my gullet with dolma,

choking down pine pitch

with a lyre, Xerox

on cardboard,

under my arm. This

is my quiver, my green

apple. What a relief

it will be. To not be

myself today and to see

the photograph

of the myth I was

stitched between horses.