TWO POEMS BY SHARON OLINKA

The Good City
The angel Raphael rose highover old stones.
Under the stonesa protracted rumbling touched with discord.
Like copper potsfallen down a well.
Or buriedkeening.
The voices do not stop.
Here we were Muslim,Christian, Jew.
Ours was a great city.
Not Londonor New York. Not Smyrna.
We lived in peace.
We wore beads to ward off the Evil Eye, and stillmolecules of air conspired against us.
This is a warning.
The bolts of vermilion and saffron silkwere burned beyond recognition.
The babies were burned.
I am mixingthings up,
I am in a port hundreds of years from now,
and people beg for their lives.
The ships, like God,may take them.
Not take them.
We lived in peace.
Don't you believe me?
Here was the Jewish Quarter.
The street of weavers.
The street of silversmiths.
You can come hereany time, be a tourist.
The dead will not deter you.
You can imagine Smyrna.

Courtesan, Ancient Smyrna
I am made from civet and dreams.
I am always amazed by men, their hall of mirrors.
Their distortions.
Just last month, I hadan old general.
Desire, afterso long, frightened him.
I heard that as penance,he sucks the pus of invalids.
But he's no longermy concern.
And there wasthe pretty married man, his darkglossy curls, who turned meover and over, on my belly.
Wishing me also a man.
Finally I said, Get one.
I know three thingsto be true.
The sea never runs dry.
The body is a cup.
Wisdom comes from the body.
When I die,bury all my jewelrywith me.
Give my poems to Heroditus Atticus.
He will know what to do with them.
My daughter will inherit this house.
And five grovesof fig trees.