His name

I’ve been eating golden apples for weeks
and I’m still a Mediterranean shadow
lingering in Trieste
almost a hundred years ago.

Trying hard not to moan
his name out loud- the reminder
not pleasant but passion
overrides taboos.

The mangled cat told me
not to pay attention
to the bird admiring his reflection
in gutter water.

Without concern for place,
it’s easy to slip
into one skin after another,
leaving an ecstatic husk.

Surely, these things add up
to make a woman rather than ghost,
with all her quiet needs,
however invisible.

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