Stopping in Athens

by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee

By noon the sun shimmers the city and I know
I should leave. But I have books to buy and stop
at the only English bookstore. Inside, the air is cooled,
It reminds me of a bookstore at home, in America.

At the artists’ cafe off the Plaka, painters show their
new works. But I’m preoccupied with sounds of taxis
outside, the waiters’ nervous rush, the clacking of the tourists’
shoes, the scuffing of ancient sandals. The past is

like a ruin with no time. If I have lost my love, I am not
calling it back. If my country wants to follow me,
so be it. If Greek policemen wonder what kind of foreigner
I am, let them. When I stop, I stop on purpose.

Who among us is not like stone, a monument to the present?
Who among us will not walk with imaginary steps through time
as citizens hurl their views past the eyes of women, as philosophers
enjoy their own voices in the mouths of followers? Might I

stop then and ask why, of the women, only the hetaerae
were heard? Which woman would decide to stop,
even if briefly, sensing her own voice deep within her throat,
before contemplating her unseen chores?

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Photo cover by Julia Dragan