In Athens
by Ann Robinson
gold standard for her era,
the soprano poet,
and the blind lyric
knee-deep in maps.
Dreams of ships, dark-walled
towers, his letters
echoed home.
Or her signature love
etched on a stone floor,
her violet hair turned white.
Sappho and Homer
gnarled legends,
wiser than their gods.
Their breath still lingers,
silhouettes
folded quietly among flowers and sorrow.
Beloved and shirtless
he asks only
for seeds and rain.
And she, broken of speech but not love—
Their afterglow lighting all of Athens
for those with wit to see.
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