Here's the thing: you never had a voice before

(merely the suggestion of laughter).

You never had a scent:

until my feet locked

to the pavements of Delos,

until I rooted in the island's chain.

You peeled up out of that mosaic,

tesserae running together,

popped into a third dimension

with one breath of chamomile,

another of sun-warmed parsley.

Inhaled to a form stolen

from my memory:

three gloomy Swedish mysteries

and one superhero film.

You rose up;

I sank down.

You were never blond before Delos,

with curls mad enough to suit even you,

risen,

and me smashed like the ruins around us.

You rose up, lord,

and stretched me transparent:

feet inside Greek earth,

herb-maddened head back home.

No god of delight risen from stone

will be gentle.

I live to dream but cannot sleep—

the god's horse,

ridden long;

ink stains my fingers and sheets,

but it is not the words, lord,

it is the narcoleptic worship.

Fevered days,

hot-eyed,

seeking shade under notebooks:

you stand in the sun,

in the shape you made for me,

and there is your hand,

reaching.

My answer is yes, lord.

My answer is yes.