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Athena
Vasiliki Albedo
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.
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter (wveditor@gmail.com)
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