Agora poets, our baklava bed sheets 
and your body in the Aegian Sea.

I'll sit up by a moon and ask
you if you remembered to paint every
layer with honey this time--
brush steady the syrup to
hold you and I between these
sheets-- lap sugar over our thighs
like the tongue of the ocean teaching
femurs how to speak-- we
laugh in waves and coatings 
of dough-- 
you & I were always
tied up by everything that's sweeter
than the shadow your spine
articulates in the water
when we both become triangles 
in the sea--
we speak over the bones of Sappho
who cries
Oh my mountain hyacinth/
honey flower and Aegean-mouth
who I learned to kiss only
soaked in bed sheets and rose water--
What can/you give one who/has 
everything,/
like Aphrodite?
When did we learn to only eat
Baklava and fill our bed with
remnants of star and wave--
Neptune felt his shoreline melt 
in granules of nectar--
I ask you if we have enough syrup to make
this bed into an agora--
If our voices could meet
there in the morning
when we're sticky and sweet and
piled high enough to dip our
coffee mugs into a night sky--
drink stars like sugar walnuts--
cup the pistachio and hazelnut
from the caramel pools
of another market place 
where I try to find your over
all the poets calling 
loud and soft for lovers 
they intended to meet there--
we build a constellation and name
her Venus-- kiss her between 
us in the crowd take her home
and stick her between
our bed sheets-- lost in shore rubble--
I'll
read
you a poem as tall as honey
and wash our lips with oranges 
and rose until we no longer
taste so much like where we sleep--
tell me that it is time.
Tell me we didn't brush each 
stratum candied and melody
only to call other women
hyacinths to curve like
a spine under the blank stare
of the moon
sleep heavy and light my love
and listen to the ocean kiss
outside the window--
hear the poets still stumbling 
about the agora
What can/you give one who/has 
everything,/
like Aphrodite?
I give her honey.
I give her poetry.