I remember, floating on the warm Italian seas,
how the shirt was wet and itchy and white and salty
like the foam.
On the bottom of the seas I found some boats' debris.
There was no flat I couldn't roam.
I met there a man called Jim —
he was a shaman of an empty giant bottle
and played a tambourine,
everything he touched became either corrupt or golden,
everyone he touched became either women or beholden,
we were drowning in mysticated wine
with heavy heads and numb hands we explored each other
he treated my swollen limbs like a shrine
and gave me such a caress that I've never seen from my mother.
We were true archeologists of each other's entrails
I tasted his blood and flesh and saliva and semen
his hands held my breasts tightly like scales.
Once on the Spanish stairs he left me and vanished
in the fountain beneath
near the stature of the giant lizard —
I've never again seen my wizard.
He could've become a sailor on a whim.
Years will pass and I will become a girl again,
I believe, the seas will tell him.