Santorini, Greece.

Steps

Six Hundred

There is a sign for a missing Jack Russel Terrier

yet no one pays attention as there is bottled coke

baklava and a semi-dormant volcano

that, long ago, sunk the island into the sea:

The black nipple of the Cyclades.

Five Hundred

Donkeys slump in the heat, with tongue out

like thick taffy waiting to be stretched.

Children are crying in spoiled misery

their parents in desperation, begging enjoyment

from the saddle that wrenches their innards.

Four Hundred

Looking down, I hop from stone to stone

left, right, left, right

piles of donkey shit, some hard, some soft

ooze over the marble curb cut.

Two women pass, gagging, with collars pulled to cover their faces.

Three Hundred

To look over the cement railing, to peer onto cacti

blooming in the fresh June heat

is like debating suicide

and I think of how hateful the pain would be

as a woman walks by in high-heels.

Two Hundred

Higher onto the cliff, the sun has blocked out

the horse, donkey, and mule piles

leaving a perfect, thinly spread path

of burnt grass, brown from equine acid

and by the trampling of a thousand morose hooves.

One Hundred

A woman assists a 90 year old man

to a resting spot shaded by a flowering tree.

He sits briefly, then stands butting his head on a branch.

Laughing indefinitely, he continues up,

his grin is all the reason

to climb these six hundred steps.

M.C.--Santorini, Greece. 2007.