altars for hetairai
by Jaye Chen
the girls smuggled weed into Greece
and roamed the symposium as two.
the hetaira in the frieze above
pouring wine for her patron, in trance
turned to her friend below the stone:
do you think they made altars
as I did for you?
ah; that one with thin shoulders
like mine; and the other, softsore eyes
like you.
had they held their hands
above bright faces yet, with song & death shunned
outside of a soundless, autumn window?
had they also, like mothers before,
held the other's neck against dead mirrors,
and, invoking our names,
drank lavender gin in plastic cups,
as if you were I but stabbed in the chin
with two streams of still & steady blood,
and no lyres and less words for love,
outside that young & dying bedroom —
while others waited at the door;
— did she, demanding that she swear omertà,
concede in tremors, at last:
I think I've touched you everywhere.
I can see the back of your shoulders
I can see every hair on your skin
I can see the impious blotches & burns
I can see all the places you missed
when you were shaving