by A. E. Beverley
‘As fair as the moon, clear as the sun, as terrible as an army.’
Blood swells on the periferia.
On the periferia, the inferior periferia.
I begged for a different lineage.
But I want never gets.
*
I wanted to wake up a Virgin in Ephesus. I rose in the Tiber, my muscles fingered with water.
Wriggling I hauled myself atop the sand and tufa. All my hair snaked in tendrils on the deck of Isola Tiberina. A sole, fat as corn, waiting for heat to light my fire again.
My arms stretched from bank to bank. Crowds flow, but alone, nothing’s in it. Semites, these arms will bring you salvation. Gentiles, you can now make your markets.
Tufa, gravel, sediment and sand. A city of bricks. Under my banner, she became a city of marble.
Even now, within our marble, we choose to bury thieves, alive, in the tufa.
*
The shell survives in Rome. On every other building, on every seven hill, you’ll find men’s memory of the sea.
The pearl of faith. The pearl is the pistil, the centre of everything. Only love is born from a shell; the clam from whence we came. Caesar had to ride under Venus’ name.
When the honey bee ploughs the core, diving can’t contain contentment.
When he sinks beyond clarity, water falls on my stomach, in my hair, on our walls. The taste of the sea. We love a circle, for its symmetry.
I like to see black-out eyes, only light above me. The sky, without Calisto. Only the best wine for my beloved, so he goes down easy. Taste the pearl – and come for me.
‘As fair as the moon, clear as the sun, as terrible as an army.’
*
Stretched across capitals, covering Rome and Istanbul. If I am not that name, how can you count my golden borders, studded with silver?
I play more than a hand.
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