Loving Evita Poem by Chris Zachariou

After dark, she finds sanctuary
in the house of the lame dancers.

Listening to melancholy songs
pressed between the pages of her
faded scrapbook, she recalls her
mother's kindness— mugunghwa
blossom on her pillow and rice
cakes for breakfast.

Forsaken purity struggles on her lips
and the burden of her remorseful chastity
lies heavy on her slender shoulders.

Evita gifts her virtue to Buenos Aires,
a city of a hundred transsexual puppets
floating shamelessly on the river
wearing blue mascara and white shoes.

At night we follow a depraved arpeggio
down the stairs of a dimly lit bordello.
She tells me she is a misguided virgin
and for a peso she takes me to her bed.

Her pupils dilate and her nipples are erect.
She whispers I'm her hero
and I tell her she is beautiful— gentle words
we tell each other to survive the night.
We have exquisite sex till sunrise
yet she is in a hurry, our time is running out.

Together, we fall into the mouth of a meandering
abyss — a ménage à trois with destiny —
and listen to the fading sounds of a dying tango.
I kiss Evita's lips— lavender, ice and sainthood