Paros is made of marble. It lies hidden in her bowels and where she dips down to meet the water, fragments rest among the flotsam like a ring of nail clippings in the bathroom sink. She might lend the soft flesh of her hips to the toil of men, who plant and sow their crops across her body, but beneath that, she is solid and unchanging, for her skeleton is made of stone. In the cradle of her womb, man has been both lost and saved. She has power that she does not understand.
Paros is strong. She bleeds from the cuts and scratches where the organ harvesters have been, gaping wounds marked by the chisels of a thousand lovers. She dutifully kept her heart beating for each of them.
Her breath is hot and white. Dust like condensation travels from her lungs to mine. It is in my eyes, my ears, my nose, my mouth, and I am anointed. Eventually I will crumble under all this weight, and then I’ll be returned, but Paros will always Be.