Blue stone on a White Stone (For Vallejo)
It is summer, always, by your sea in Syros
I’m sitting by the waves, night
falling I never knew I liked night
a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
motionless, your waves, smiles curl
I didn’t know I loved the sea
and here I loved the rivers all this time
I didn’t know I loved the sky
cloudy, ebony, clear, all the same:
like a safety pin, fastening, together.
How fingers could touch, trace, bind
I did not know, or how the blue vault could hold
so much soul. But I know
I shall die on Syros with the crushing of waves,
on a night when the sand is weary, wet, kissed.
Suddenly the ocean will roar
on a summer night, perhaps, in the heat of August.
It will be summer, I know already, I felt it
at once, when our toes touched
where the Mediterranean dunes and sea
like us, promised to return with the sun
when the heat can impress
onto skin, fingertips, salt.
Cagla Sokullu is dead. You would understand, if you fell
as she has, and with every tiptoe
her blood was wine and
took flight in her veins. Oh how she fell,
like every bird that loved the rain. Like the winged god
from the sky. She is the clouds.
In the beating heart of twilight, a fragile breath stutters
and falls away short of its dare. Your hands
Pull her apart, break her open, make her whole. The sea,
the nymphs and the stars are her witness.