THE METAMORPHOSIS

 

Mars, May 19 acrylic on canvas board 60 x 50 cm / 23.6 x 19.7 in

THE METAMORPHOSIS

The first time I saw Greece

my nose started twitching. Didn’t stop.

It was sunlight on pale luminous

pines that did it the first time.

A tangy, sappy fragrance. This was on

the pretty if minor island of Poros—

the way a good looking jump shot

is minor or extra deep dimples

are nice but in no way significant—

sometimes grilled meat in the alleyways

below the Acropolis did the trick.

The reek of goats in Galatas too.  

I felt like my senses were taking in

every bush tree flower face rush

of surf at three am, scent of ouzo on the Metro.

The pallid face of a particular bar maid was

a vision of the Underworld. And one

dusty, odorous afternoon in Athens I saw Beauty

working in a shop. I stepped inside stepping

into the hooves and skin of something not me.

The woman in a cream-colored tank top

didn’t make me think of her

olive green eyes and faintly

musk-inspired perfume

nor even of her thick black eyelashes

or the profundity of her hips

but of the lucky servant whose job it was to polish her

cheekbones and shoulders that very morning

then released her into the city where one

glance turned me into a snouted 

four-legged beast grunting in the corner.