Η λειτουργία της γιαγιάς

η ζωή εν τάφω
in the well of silence
echoes of childhood
reminders of destiny
creep back
η ζωή εν τάφω

When she smiles, she is the dried fig to be eaten on special days
she is Yiayia all over again in blue and he is alive there
telling her to shush, it is not a real snake, at the back of the Teevee
there’s no trap door, nothing can slide out or in
all tracks lead to the safe place where food and thought mesh
she makes sandwiches instead of soups, today’s is simple −
a yellow block of soap and toilet roll − who will take the first bite?
At Anglesea, she leaves her scarf to sweep the sand and she falls
madly for the waves, becoming the black clove in the rice pudding,
always plucked out before the flavour overwhelms the taste buds
of a baby, crying for something to lullaby the tongue
and frighten the sting away.

η ζωή εν τάφω
so far away from
the Ancient Greek Gospel
smells of incense
framed icon faces

so far away
from my old home
η ζωή εν τάφω

Only for Enzo will she break Easter chocolate into many pieces
mixing it in with spaghetti, opening and shutting his silent cavern
feeding back his dead wife, praying his children will visit
Enzo’s eyes tell her − living ghosts are the hardest to please.
No one can stop her from banging her fist against red bricks
blood must be crocheted into patterns with blue threads
making mountain lake village hills, flowers from ancient soil −
look at my pretty doilies − a map of pillagings, a life of knives
rocks and bed pans.

She pole-vaults expectations to accept a maturity
only the blessed reach.
Tonight she will sleep with a painted egg under her pillow
it will be cracked
and the smell will weave itself into her dreams.

η ζωή εν τάφω
as the last leaf clings
to the withered tree
making its final prayer

in the well of silence
echoes of childhood
reminders of destiny
creep back

η ζωή εν τάφω
η ζωή εν τάφω
so far away from …

and the smell will weave itself into her dreams
so far away from …
η ζωή εν τάφω