Not Exarcheia Sonnet
(prompted by Megan Fernandes’ city sonnets)
Rooftops the color of ube in morning light; a trick
I noticed at home not in Exarcheia.
The places we visit with rats in the walls
stay with us. So, here I am seeing
chimeras. Penumbras showing
futures. Angels
accompanying commuters. Laying hands on their shoulders.
Houses surrounded by rubies.
I mistake where I’ve been for
where I am;
the cities I’ve been to, for the city I’m in.
For example, am I eating honey-soaked baked goods across from the riot police
or am I pushing people deeper into the carceral system?
This is the opposite of: We-are-now-as-
distant-from-then-
than-then-was-from-then.
Because it’s still not as distant from when
I first listened to Me and the Devil on Vocalion
records.
The ancient world is awake
early this morning,
mopping the paving stones in Exarcheia,
listening.