Ikaria
In a little-known port
on the island's northern shore
they came, cleaving the August
somnolence of afternoon,
to the edge of the sea -
three pallikaria,
one with the head of a god,
beard curling onto his chest,
the virile profile of Poseidon
flanked by two seafaring men
on summer leave, spending
time with family and friends.
They crossed the shingle
where it abruptly
shelved into Aphrodite's foam,
cold on the lips and flesh
as gorgon's breath.
They lowered the bearded one
out of his wheelchair into the wash
frothing over his breast
in flinching caress,
a spark in his eyes,
the taste of salt on his tongue.
His two companions
supported his armpits,
raising his face above buffeting waves,
until spray clotted his gaze
and his limbs became ice,
then lifted him out to dry.
One placed a cigarette
in the chilled man's lips,
the other held a match,
and they made their way
back over the shale,
past small kafeneia drowsing in sun,
houses, angles and planes lime-white,
shutters drawn against blinding
light, while the tide tolled loud
in the mouth of the cave
at Karavostamo.
The island named for Ikaros
baptises broken sons in brine,
until the heart's rembetiko
is audible again, and wild.
The men who brought
their friend to bathe
might have emerged
from a Tsarouchis canvas,
would have seemed at home
in a Ritsos poem…