Kiki Dimoula THE ALIBI

Whenever I come to visit you
only the time that’s intervened
from one visit to the next has changed.
As for the rest, as always
from my eyes runs a river
your engraved name blurred
– godfather to the little hyphen
between the two dates
so people won’t think the length
of your life died unbaptised.
Next I clean the flowers’
withered droppings adding
some red earth where black had been laid
and finally I change the glass in the oil-lamp
for another a clean one I bring.

As soon as I get home
I diligently wash the dirty one
disinfecting it with chlorine
and the caustic foam of disgust I emit
as I shake vigorously.
Always with gloves and keeping my body
well away from the tiny basin
so the dead water won’t splash me.
With strong aversion’s wire wool I scour
the ingrained grease on the glass’ rim
and on the palate of the doused flame
while rage crushes the illicit stroll
of a snail, trespasser
in the neighbouring stillness.

I rinse it then rinse with scalding fury
a boiling effort to bring the glass to its prime
its happy normal use
for quenching thirst.
And at last it becomes crystal clear
how hypochondriacal my wish is not to die.

dearest – look at it this way:
when wasn’t love afraid of death?

Kiki Dimoula THIEVES IN MIND

Crying she describes
how burglars wrecked the house
the wretches took her jewellery and raped
old women values.

Isn’t she happy?

It’s been years since any thief
set foot in my house
even for coffee.
I deliberately leave the pot unlocked.

On returning each time I pray
to find the door’s canines broken

the lights shaking as if just having knocked
against a tall earthquake’s head

to see the burial gifts stolen
from the mirror’s mummy kingdoms

as if someone had shaved in the bathroom
and whiskers had sprouted on my beardless touch
their refutation bound hand and foot on the floor

and, coming at its leisure from the kitchen, steam
from warm footprints with lots of cinnamon on top.

Kiki Dimoula EASTER IN THE OVEN

The goat kept on bleating hoarsely.
I angrily opened the oven what’s all the noise I asked
the guests can hear you.
Your oven’s not hot, it bleated
do something otherwise your cruelty
will go hungry and at festive time too.

I put my hand inside. It was true.
The head the legs the neck
the grass the pasture the crags
the slaughter all cold.