If you always live alone, whose feet will you wash?

—Saint Basil

It was just another fishing village
where we didn’t spend the rest of our lives
together, a half moon of houses white
with spray around a harbor.

                                         Fallen acorns
rotted by the roadside on the way out,
up into the steep, shadowy hills. A goat
nibbled a bush to the quick, oblivious
to the quivering notes of the last songs
from birds settling into the oaks.

                                        My fingers
turned the sticky throttle of the motorbike
for more gas, your cheek pressed against the scruff
of my neck, our bodies leaned out as one
on curves.

                              They hadn’t gone their separate ways
yet, our bodies. We hadn’t pitched our days
into a deep well where night could come fill
its jugs with darkness. The light glancing on either
of us still glanced on both of us.

                                        We paused
at the summit. The town below, where we
didn’t grow old, or humble, or simple,
was no bigger than a palm, a pale hand
cupping itself for a drink of water.
by Joe Smith