Craig Martin Getz

Your skin will forever be half my age. Your eyes, double.
Get on, you say, straddling a beast that can go for days
without water. The saddle wasn’t made for two
but things happens
just outside the official field of vision. In the slide,

your T-shirt bleeds into the sky; V marking the chest
your silver chain
seems about to slip from,
your head floating in the sun; the ruins

overexposed, the nearly perfect formula
of silk & stone, providence lost in your gaze.
The Great Colonnade, the Temple of Bel, the same amphitheater
ISIS has just used for group decapitations. The real gore

in Greek tragedies remains offstage: while Agamemnon shouts
Ah, I am struck a deadly blow and deep within, Oedipus shouts
I shudder at the sight of you, & the chorus informs us No
sluggish oozing drops, but a black rain and bloody hail poured down…

& so I straddled you. What I remember most of what was the most
astonishingly-intact ancient desert civilization
is humid & brief.

I shudder at the sight of you. Your white T-shirt wasn’t the only thing
that bled into the sky. While violence holds us captive,
this is all I can do.

Craig Martin Getz (Willingboro, NJ, 1964) left LA for Barcelona in 1989. His poetry has appeared in DIAGRAM, Mastodon Dentist, Blue Earth Review, Barcelona INK #8, Emerge Literary Journal, Subliminal Interiors, The Gorilla Press, Agave Magazine, Wilde Magazine, Northwind Magazine, Your Impossible Voice, featured as poem of the week on The Missing Slate, The Tishman Review, Assaracus, Parentheses, and Nimrod International Journal; bilingual publications in Spain: Poetas en Red, Poetas en mayo, Rust: Issue Five. – poetry / photography Instagram @craigmartingetz