She came in the summer.
The one when Christina turned
Sixteen, and we thought
We had grown up.
When we ate strawberries
Behind the boatshed, listening
To Siouxsie Sioux.
We called it ‘old wave’.

The sky is a petulant blue
cloudless, unforgiving
like us, and clarity
like silver tongues
and lennon/mccartney songs
seems to exist
for a moment.

petra, she says, without
the hellenic splendour
we were accustomed to.
she sits beneath
an andy warhol print, campbell’s soup
but instead of pop art
she is byzantine, lenten and loveless
with eyes flat as unlevened bread.