Gulf of America
Every Breath You Take that massive, muzaked hit of stalked romance,
wafts from the elevator speakers at the Marriot. I’ve left Vincenzo but he won’t move out. Males
of all ages, armed with roses, chocolates, push in, looking late, contrite. Oh, how they fall in line
on Valentine’s! I’ll be watching you. There is no word for stalk in Italian. Google renames the gulf.
I prefer Golfo de Mexico, even if golfo’s only one o away from golf, a game I hate. Italian goffo means goofy, clumsy,
maladroit. In the Foxed lobby, our leader’s face pulsates, fat heart gushing the words Be mine.
69
Tickle? she says when I giggle— fingers between my toes, rough sponge on my flayed soles. Does this tickle everyone? I ask. Some more, some less. You in middle, she says. Last night I called OurTime Kyle, who made crabcakes. He got annoyed when I spaced out as he revealed his goal—
a future in gemology. Am I boring you? he said. Did I think dating would be fun? Oh, it’s not that, I yawned. Why does nail polish take so long to dry? In People, Sheryl Lee Ralph sports an enormous emerald-cut diamond, happier than ever at 69, proof that the best is yet to come!
Extended Release
In a small village in central Greece I’m going off Pristiq, telling no one
until it’s done. At night the blanket pricks my skin, pink from the Evia sun.
My brain clicks when I blink. A splash of crimson, like the poppies
that grow wild along the road, borders my visual field. I sleep
with chills, wake in a pool of grief. Who will I be when I come back?
Will I want sex? My sister says it hurts, sends me a box of K-Y Liquibeads.
Feta
Konstantina drives me to the beach, brings takeout pork. I ask about her kids, but she said ribs—same word in Greek when spoken fast. I want to know who built the medieval tower between the red & white smokestacks along the quay. Venetians, Franks? She waves away a fly, closes her eyes & with both shoulders,
shrugs—yparchoun polloi—there are many. What about the half-built church in the pine grove, its floor littered with yellow shell casings, the green-black snake lifting its head along the road, but clearly dead? She says today my president called feta Swiss. What kind of world is this for kids?
Hilary Sideris is the author of the poetry collections Calliope (Broadstone Books, 2024), Liberty Laundry (Dos Madres Press, 2022), Animals in English (Dos Madres Press, 2020), The Silent B (Dos Madres Press, 2019), Un Amore Veloce (Kelsay Books, 2019), The Inclination to Make Waves (Big Wonderful LLC, 2016) and Most Likely to Die (Poets Wear Prada, 2014). Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Originally from Indiana and a longtime Brooklyn resident, she is a co-founder and curriculum developer for CUNY Start, a college preparatory program within the City University of New York.