YET
A long time has passed. Everything we took from
our homes when we left, have withered, are holed,
ruined.
The sound of a door knocking in the fiery sunshine
the voice saying, you’re late, in the hallway
the white comb the woman used when she combed
her hair in front of the mirror,
the cigarette we shared by the window one spring evening
pulling Ursa Minor’s tail
the shadow of two hands under the lamp, between
two plates full of fruit.
What we put in our bag when we left our homes:
those white socks we wore at the shore during
the summer,
the white underwear and the athletic undershirts,
which you could say suited the body of April,
even the small scissors our young sister used to clip
her nails by the ledge
and the window reflections that shivered on her cheeks
and hands
they all unraveled, withered, dissolved
the small scissors rusted, its points dulled
it resembles a dead swallow on the stones
next to the shaver and the sea soap, we didn’t
noticed it, we clip our toenails, the callouses
resemble a rusted, useless key, broken locks.
What we brought in our bags and suitcases
they are all holed. Nothing is left.
Yet, sometimes, when evening comes and Ursa Minor
hangs its flashlight over the opening of the tent,
and digs with its nails a shallow hole in the dry soil
Peter or Vasilis or uncle Anthony
groping for a lost spoon or cup in their bag
they delay, their hands get forgetful,
the wind becomes round and motionless like
olive oil in the jar
and silence resembles a millstone when the water
flow is stopped.
Then suddenly we hear that forgotten sound
as if they cut, with those small scissors, papers
for the plate rack Christmas evening
as if that white comb combs the hair of a woman
as if raised to our tiptoes we light our cigarette
in the moonlight.
And then we know that deep in our suitcases
among the unwashed shirts and the holed socks
that embroidered small napkin remains full of
homely warmth
and the shadow of two beloved hands like two big
dry grapevine leaves.
Strange. We want to cry.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 