the foot of the man who came so far,
the foot that walked the sands of Ilium,
was nipped by the blue dusk of fin,
stood on the leather carpet of the underworld.
Now in her hand, the cupped hand of the ruddy slave.
Her eyes move from toe to calf, sinew and stretch,
skin like cypress bark in the torchlight.
She feels a twitch, his heel flexes,
her gaze reaches his thigh, an oar of a limb.
There she sees the rippled pink, the opal sheet
of wrinkle, the plunged in mosaic of pain:
the scar.
His eyes meet hers, knowing.
His lips purse, pucker, hush now.
Beneath the seaweed beard are
the soft cheeks she once stroked,
the rounded, seeking mouth.
Somewhere in her chest, ghost-milk stirs.
She will feed this secret.
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