Portrait of a Young Sailor, Sitting

He wears only white

besides the gray socks that adorn his calves
and a navy trim that outlines the wide neckline
of his shirt
revealing his royal shoulders.

If you follow those rich shoulders
to his tanned neck
(he had been out on the water for weeks)
and up to his eyes,
you’ll find a gaze
directed towards
nothing,
maybe the sea he misses
when he’s stranded ashore.

He is pretty,
a perfect mustache
nearly touching his cheekbone,
crafted by winds
and sails.

Such young lips
are about to taste
a bitter coffee,
lips that are intimately
resting on each other.

Song for Peaches

Peaches—
you’re always on my grandmother’s plastic-covered table
in Greece in mountains where it storms
and the clouds come down to the windows
they tap on them to greet us while we eat.

And Peaches—
I always imagined that your juice was
the sweat that poured from tender bodies
when they got too close.

To eat a peach is to trap
inside of you
a sweet ray of sun.