Athena
Vasiliki Albedo

Slumped on your daybed still buzzing on yesterday,
barefoot goddess, armed with a shot
of ouzo, the remote by your side. But you’re four whole
mountains and a hundred-carat sea, you’ve six thousand
islands to your name: heiress, broke, selling it all,
stealing your way to the bank again, hungover
in your perfume of olive and grime. You’re a fig sign
shaking the sky, you’re an open-armed shrug,
welcoming as you reach for the valium.
So many guests at your feet, on your islands like freckles, darkening.
What will it be Athena? Another election, a little concealer?
You are hooked on Twitter and telemarketing and the news
of last Friday’s fratricide. Listen: the pitter-patter
of another fracas. Behold, it will be televised.