Photograph by Eric Sorensen

Today we begin our Poetry Week, featuring the work of a new writer daily. Enjoy “Bolina,” opening the week.

by Eleonor Botoman

“Granted the ambiguous reward of escaping
 Apollo’s embrace but becoming a symbol of
his prowess and eternal youth rather
than her own vindicated virginity.”
– The Legacy of Apollo 

On my honeyed body
Split down to the ivory,
You are the hot tongue-lick
Of a wasted afternoon

Crawling out
Of its little peach pit

Are you sleeping behind the kitchen
mildew this evening? Do you
Hold your court in the foxhole?

The bones you collect from the back porch
are Not meant to be yours
You bear witness to a wheezing sea
prove to me you Feel nothing

It’s sour
At the bottom of the meat
Saccharine stars, perihelion
Spitting rinds onto my fresh scalp

The avian days oiled over,
punctured figs pressed into
my open skirt

The collar of the cliff’s edge
Clean as a morgue