Marilena Zackheos Poetry


With a copper sun
the copper man steals
my image.

He numbers me in
his Registration Book:
1 2 7. What else is there

beyond the posing,
the taking,
the stamp and the vacuum?

I shield my dreams in burlap
and when night falls,
I discard them. Brothers,

husbands, widowers,
unfamiliar sons—
molten metal against flesh.

I count them all
in silver piasters,
King Georges.



Feeling for Place

We lived in shallow time
with blackened fingernails and smeared lip edges
playing catch-me-if-y...


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