There is very little left of Sappho here.
Her book remains with a neighbor
who moved out in the middle of the night.

In this studio flat the bed occupies
most space, like someone else's tongue
exploring taste buds in my mouth.

For years I exchanged letters with
a poetess whose Chinese brushstrokes
hang moist and spidery on these walls.

My husband never knew we were lovers
though he often mentioned making the best
of two worlds. Eventually they both left.

Sometimes I touch myself in the places
where they lingered most. In Lésvos
the olives are nearly ripe for picking.