Salome Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

Oh NO!
The curse, the familiar
stroke me again,
like the spit of a demon
on the face of a child,
like the scent of the flowers
on the nose of the bees in spring.

I am left miming stillness
with the entropy of my sight
capturing the abstract
through the dilation of the iris,
and only the pieces of the elephant tasks
on my keyboard
remind me that time is aging
on the strings they are hitting.

What jealous witch has charmed me?

How many times have I passed
in front of that mirror?
Salome was dancing her passion inside
and I think her veils tickled my nose.

The snake played his role well
in the theatre of Eden,
and threw me in this trap,
the naughty,
the insignificant.

“HELP! ” I cry,
but she is deaf,
drinking her coffee in Bagdad,
or was it Jamaica?