She is liquid sapphire, the Aegean,
conjuring myths in her cauldron
beneath the open sea smooth as
Aphrodite’s cheek. Santorini,
jewel of the Cyclades, where
volcanic sands write secrets about
wars and heroes. Creamy pumice
promontories and high precipices
loom over all like Olympus. Lava
cliffs striped red and black descend
into the crashing surf – are these
remnants of Atlantis’s wall?
Beyond the beaches, a titanic sea stack
the length and color of Ahab’s
whale towers into the sky, the seething
blue churning around its base. And I
feel the god coming. His silvery
hippocampi make the sea roar
as they charge to the surface, their
rainbow fins glistening. Then Poseidon
breaches the waves in his chariot
wearing his split white cloak with gold
circles, sea-green eyes flashing, and his
Cyclops-forged trident blazing.
She is liquid sapphire, the Aegean,
and the mind is molten imagination.
